Wednesday, January 31, 2007


What the blazes is going on??

1) There's been a fire in the Farragut North Metro three times in the past week. Um, what?

2) WHAT WERE PEOPLE THINKINGGGGG? Those things planted in Boston? AN AD CAMPAIGN! Who randomly attaches electronics to bridges. tunnels. HOSPITALS. as an advertising stunt? Menino is pushing for arrests, paying back of all fees incurred, etc. I say...go for it. Don't back down. They need to pay, if only for being absolutely idiotic. Honestly. This sort of moronic behavior needs to be punished. Everyone knows that you do not go around planting random suspicious shiznit in a city.

3) Here is my face.

Monday, January 29, 2007


Make the Price Right...

So, I was talking with a friend today about being single, and traveling, and blah, blah, blah. And, I asked her the question of: if you could choose being single for a year, and going on one awesome one-week trip, vs. having a boyfriend, but not going on any trip at all for a year, what would you choose?

She asked the terms of being single, and I said you would go on dates with some people, but definitely be single (alone! alone! alone!). She asked the terms of having a boyfriend, and I said that it would be a good, solid relationship (love! affection! happiness!).

She chose the boyfriend, not being "bit by the travel bug as much as other people," as she said. But then again, she's also been to Hawaii, Wyoming, Mexico, Germany, France, and many other awesome places.

I told her that I'd pick the one-week dream vacation. Hell, I've been single for over a year. And with a dream vacation as a carrot at the end of it? It wouldn't be bad at all.

FYI, my dream vacation is to go to Egypt, rummage around in the pyramids and ruins, explore markets and bazaars, etc.

I went back to my work, and she thought I was done with the silly questions. But no, I wasn't thinking about the article on the Fujita scale (did you know that there's no such thing as a F-6 tornado?), I was thinking of what her price would be.

So, I asked her what her price was, what type of trip it would take. I don't know why I was asking her, since I could not a) give her the trip of her dreams, or b) make a magical awesome boyfriend appear. But I wanted to know.

She said that it would take a one-month trip to New Zealand and Australia to make it worth her while to be single for a year. I said that if I got a one-month trip to Egypt, I'd be willing to be single for two years...not that having a boyfriend and getting to travel are mutually exclusive.

All this is to say....what's your price?

Single for a year = How short of a trip, and where?

How low will you go?

Friday, January 26, 2007


65-year old clubs mountain lion

Wife Clubs Mountain Lion Attacking Man - Saves Husband

Okay. First off, Bravo.

Secondly, let's discuss the part where she jabs the pen in the mountain lion's eye.

"She said, 'So I got the pen and tried to put it in his eye, but it didn't want to go in as easy as I thought it would.'

When the pen bent and became useless, Nell Hamm went back to using the log."

Thursday, January 25, 2007


possibly irrational fears

Sometimes...when I'm wearing a skirt and my long jacket, I get this horrifying, paralyzing fear that I've forgotten to wear a skirt. I look down in near panic, then realize that I had remembered, of course.

Just saying.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007




Let's re-cap a recent situation on an airline. According to an article on MSN, a 3-year old was having a wee little tantrum while the whole plane was waiting to take off. The 3-year old refused to get in her seat, and according to the report that I read, she was jumping around, not sitting down, and smacking her parents in the head.

The family was ordered off the flight, and put on a flight that left the next day.

I don't know if this was a result of their complaining, or if the airline offered it on its own, but the family was reimbursed for their flight, and they were offered three free tickets for anywhere that AirTran flies.

The father said that his family will never fly AirTran again. In the accompanying video, the mom says that she "just wanted to make the public aware."

Here's the article: Airline Defends Removing Family From Flight

To all this, I say, AirTran: What were you thinking?

Why did you give them three free tickets? Why would you ever want this obnoxious family back with you? Why don't you give me, a kind, courteous, and loyal passenger who has never ever caused a single problem, a free ticket?

I'm so sick of bratty adults raising bratty children. I know it's tough to get a handle on little ones, but, honestly. These people are taking perfectly good people and ruining them for the rest of us. It's fairly obvious where this girl gets the idea that her extreme behavior is acceptable: at the tender age of three, she already knows that the squeaky wheel gets the grease (hell, it was proven in this situation - money reimbursed, extra night in Florida, three free tickets), and she knows that if she makes a big enough fuss for a long enough time, she'll get her way.

God bless her teachers, her babysitters, and any future boyfriends. Because if her parents are any indication, it's only going to get worse...


In which I pretend I'm a rhetoric teacher

1) Watch a video of the State of the Union. Write down your impressions, especially concerning the President's words on immigration, health care, oil conservation, Iraq.

Video in Right Corner

2) Read the text of the speech, and see if those impressions have changed.


(I'll be doing this little exercise tonight!)

Sunday, January 21, 2007


Let it snow! Let it snow!

When I was eight, looking out the window and praying for a snow day, little did I anticipate that I'd be praying for a snow day at the ripe old age of 24. But here I am, wondering if putting my pajamas inside out would actually work, and wondering if it would hurt to give it a try...

Per usual, when the snow started coming down, I got the urge to buy a shovel and get to the streets. Walking back from the Metro tonight, none of the sidewalks were shoveled. No salt was being put down, no sand was crunching beneath my feet. At the end of my ten-minute trudge, I finally saw two snow plows, breezing along with their plows up. What? What?

Where is the efficiency of the Northeast, the Midwest, and everywhere else in the developed world?

But since I whine about this every year (when it snows, every year. Catch on, D.C.), I'll stop whining, and just post some snowy pictures from the past.

On the lawn at Crazy Tony's New Year's Eve party (ringing in 2005). Apparently I fell...cuz that's my foot with the black shoe.

Me and C-note, laughing it up in 2003 (yes, even though we're from New England, we still take pictures when it snows)

Pat and his fraternity, circa 2004? They're very tough (and possibly inebriated?)!


this is me. vulnerable.

Okay, so last night I was supposed to hang out with the guy mentioned in the previous post (we did end up going to the movies on Friday)...about an hour or so before we were supposed to get together, he called me, and said that he had a splitting headache, and asked if we could get together for lunch the next day (today).

At first, I said yes, I was free. But then something rose up in me, and, well, anyone could tell, because I said, "Yes, I'm free...Actually. I'm not. I have plans with E and C-note." The edge was in my voice. And he tossed out the idea of having dinner on Monday, and I said "Maybe." Or something, I don't remember. I was driving, and distracted, feeling really pissed off. But really, going deeper than the surface of pissed off, I was hurt and confused.

I don't understand. He acts interested, but not interested at the same time. We talk online, he asks about my day—makes me feel like he wants to know about me, what makes me me. He holds my hand at the movies. Hell, he pays for my movie. But he's also not called when he said he would, he mentions going out, then doesn't mention it until I bring it up. Maybe he did have a headache. Maybe he didn't.

But, getting caught at every red light between Mel's apartment and mine, I decided that I'd rather be alone than be hurt. So I deleted his phone number at the first red light. Deleted all of the text messages from him at the second. And deleted all the ones I had sent him at the third.

If anything happens from here on in, it will be all him.


"I don't do drama, my tears don't fall fast." - renee olstead

Tuesday, January 16, 2007



A couple of weeks ago one of my friends told me that he called an object of his affection on the phone, but didn't leave a message when her voicemail picked up.

I gave him a sound online whupping, saying that if he calls a girl, he should always leave a message, unless they become a couple and she knows, just by seeing that he called, the reason for his calling.

He argued that he hates his voice, and leaving messages in general. I argued that if she likes him, anything he says is going to be super cute. If she doesn't like him, leaving a bad message won't change anything. Hearing my opinion on the matter (and, for some reason, he takes my advice?), he promised to leave messages from now on.

Personally, if a guy who I don't know too well calls me and doesn't leave a message, it leaves me miffed. The whole thing has the air of 'ding dong ditch' about it. His logic may be saying "Hey, I didn't leave a message, so I can call back under the pretense of telling her whatever I didn't leave in a message." Or something.

She's thinking, "Hey, he's creepy."

About an hour ago, I left a message. I was calling a guy to see if we're going to the movies after work tomorrow. I was trying to be, you know, smooth. Here's the train wreck (too soon?):

"Hey, are we going to the movies tomorrow? I was wondering because I need to know if I should put a little extra outfit into my effort. Um...put a little effort in my outfit. Bye."


Sunday, January 14, 2007


I'm just full of tips today.

Today E and I went to the Hair Cuttery in Wheaton. It was bustling in the doorway, but they saw us right away. As E went off with her hairdresser, and I went to mine, E called across the room, asking me if I was getting my hair shampooed. I responded in the negative, and sat at the chair.

My man Alex pulled the tarp around me as I tucked my bag and jean jacket underneath it, on my lap. Glancing down, I saw a tuft of hair stuck to the tarp about eight inches from my face.

He tells me, quite directly, that my hair is super dry, and asks me if I want to get a deep-conditioning treatment. I turned him down, and said that I just wanted a trim. He then told me to get up, and I followed, and he led me to the sink.

Apparently I was getting a shampoo. In a crappy mood, I didn't feel like setting him straight, preferring to just be in a bad mood about it. He was chatting away, washing away, as I focused on my neck bending backwards over the porcelain sink. I know I've complained about this before, but for real. You'd think they would have developed a technology by now that would alleviate the sensation of a breaking neck. Does anyone other than me find that experience to be extremely uncomfortable?

He kept talking, and I couldn't hear him over the din of the water, so I broke two of my new year's resolutions, and responded, "Sorry?" (one, don't pretend to hear people when I can't, two, don't say "sorry" needlessly/excessively). He sounded kind of bummed when he said, "okay," so I have no idea what had gone on.

Finally done with my second shampoo of the day, we went back to his chair, and he was cut, cut, cutting away, even though I had specifically requested "just a trim." I didn't say anything in protest, though, because I figured he had gone too far to go back, and I was in the mood for steaming inwardly, and he was giving me good fodder.

Here's a tip: Never get a haircut when you're in a crappy mood. It's a bit self-defeating.

He was drying my hair, occasionally clocking me in the head with the dryer, when one of his coworkers came over, and deposited a used McDonald's bag on his vanity, with a note attached. I interestedly peered through the mass of hair piled in front of my eyes to read it.

In green highlighter, it was scrawled,

"Alex. Throw away this bag."

Apparently my man Alex was a slob in the Hair Cuttery breakroom, and the girls weren't going to stand for it anymore.

He took it in stride, ignoring it, and drying away. I had to admire his aplomb. He then spoke, asking me, "Can you sit lower?"

Sure, my good man, let me take out some vertebrae. So I said, "You mean, slouch?" And he said "Yeah." So, I slid down in the chair, and slouched.

Alright. Here's another little tip. Never ask someone to slouch. Never. Just don't. It's so rude.

The first time this happened, I was in high school, and at my junior homecoming dance. With heels on, I was taller than my date. We were getting the "official picture" taken, and the photographer (who had a mullet, mind you), instructed me to slouch. Too taken aback to protest, I kind of leaned against my date, looking like a half-drunk floozy in the results.

The next time it happened, it was one year later, during graduation week, same photographer. This time, I was posing with my parents. The Mulleted Photographer asked me to slouch, and I said "No," quite firmly. Implicit in that message was "Screw You."

It's happened to me a couple other times, and it actually happened to my dad a month ago. We were at the "Congratulations Mike & Erin Dinner," and we asked a guy in the lobby of the restaurant to take a group picture. We all huddled together, and the guy asked my dad to slouch, so that a person in the back would be visible. My dad, being an awesome guy, did as he was asked. If I hadn't had the better part of a bottle of red wine, I probably would have been alert enough to be like "NO, Daddy!!!"

I know this guy wasn't a professional photographer, so he didn't know any better, but making someone slouch does not make for a better picture. So, it's semi-humiliating for the subject, and makes a crappy picture to boot. Don't ask someone to slouch—rearrange the peeps instead.

Back to the Hair Cuttery. My scoliosis-training time finally over, I paid the bill, and skedaddled out of there with E. She was being really complementary, praising my new do, and I loved hers. I looked in a random mirror, and I realized, to my dismay, that I was sporting "The Rachel," circa 1996. It's not bad, it's not great, but it's definitely The Rachel.

After wandering around the mall for a bit, we headed back to the car, and I stopped at Dairy Queen to grab a Blizzard. The guy at the register, who was probably around my age, took my order, I paid, and he got to work on making it.

I was zoning out, looking around at the blenders and noting the items on the menu, when he came back with my frosty treat.

I looked at him, and he turned my Blizzard upside-down in the air, with the spoon stuck in it, turned it back upright, and gave it to me. Smiling, really smiling, for the first time today, I thanked him and walked away, laughing as I told the story to E. He had totally done that just to make me smile, and to make me laugh.

So, as the final tip: Don't be afraid to be kind and sorta goofy to a stranger. She'll thank you for it, and love you in a "I love you as a stranger" way.

(oh, crap, one more tip. Reading over, I realized that I accidentally deleted a paragraph in this post. So, always type carefully, lest you lose some genius prose that can't be replicated.)

Friday, January 12, 2007



So, I'm pretty sure I've died and gone to heaven, because tonight Wombat interviewed me on his Audio Blog.

You can catch it here.

For the record, I haven't listened. I'd rather think of myself as devastatingly clever and witty, and hearing the recording might dash that. Also, I hate hearing my voice. It makes me want to, oh, never speak ever again.

Laugh! Cry! Cringe! Enjoy!

Thursday, January 11, 2007


oops...malfunctioning wardrobe

So today I decided to wear my favorite brown skirt. I had bought it last year at TJ Maxx, and had instantly fallen in love with it. Tweedish, down to the knees, it has a nice fall and shape. It goes great with my brown boots, and it has a pleat to one side, and I love pleats.

Or, well, so I thought it was a pleat, until the first time I wore it, felt a breeze, looked down, and realized that it was actually a huge-ass slit that goes to my mid-thigh.

Hesitating for a second on that warm fall day in 2006, I figured that people see more of me when I wear shorts, or, you know, a bathing suit (although I wear neither at work), so it was all good.

I used to feel like a little ho when I sat at my old desk because that leg faced out, and I'd inevitably flash all visitors that came to our little corner of the world. At my new desk, that leg faces my boss, and the random man in the office building across from ours, and I don't feel many qualms about occasionally flashing either, so it's all good.

At any rate. For Halloween, I dressed as a skanky Minnie Mouse, and wore thigh-highs for the first time, and fell in love. There was no annoying band around the waist, and they stayed up through a long walk, goofy dancing, and climbing up and down stairs. Remembering that experience fondly, I had bought a new pair when I was home for Christmas, and I decided to try them out today. I had bought the talls, since I'm tall, and I was shocked to find that they went all the way up to my ass. Eh, not so much comfortable. So I scrunched them down a bit, and that was that.

Walking to and from the Metro was no problem. Sitting at work was no problem, and the slit fell open per usual, and I showed my boss my new purchase. She good-naturedly admired them. The man across the alley didn't seem to notice.

Lunchtime rolled around, as it wonderfully does, and I suggested Au Bon Pain to Coworker Rob. It's only about six blocks away (or three-tenths a mile, as my pedometer accurately or unaccurately says), but the second we exited and started down the sidewalk, I knew it would seem a lot longer.

Rob was talking, and I couldn't focus. Those hot thigh-highs were becoming not-so-hot as they steadily inched their way to my knees. I was smiling, nodding, and inwardly panicking. How the hell can one maintain inner poise when their clothes were falling off?

We stopped at a light in front of a bar, and I blurted out my confession, interrupting Rob mid-sentence. "Um, this may be TMI, or an overshare, but my thigh-highs are NOT staying up."

Rob helpfully suggested that I invest in garters, as I bent to the side, trying to pinch through the layers of my coat and skirt to somewhat modestly yank the offending items up. The job somewhat achieved, I turned around, and realized that there had an older man directly behind me watching the show with a horrified look on his face. Cringing, I tried to pull off an innocent smile.

The rest of the walk to Au Bon Pain was only interrupted two more times by minor pulls on my part, with Rob waiting patiently and understandingly. To tell the truth, I was rather surprised, because Rob is generally very quick with a cutting joke.

For example...
scene: a couple of months ago, when we were coming back from lunch.
rob: we can't cross here, there's construction.
me: I'm a girl, I can do whatever I want to do. *insert snooty hairflip and obnoxious tone*
rob: yeah, except earn as much as men.
*raucous laughter on behalf of all*

But he was sensitive to my compromising position, and once we ordered from Au Bon Pain, he held my food for me while I went into the bathroom and hiked those babies up once more.

And here, my friends, is where I made my error. Even though the bathroom was disgusting, I should have risked an attempt to balance to remove my boots, one at a time, and take off those risky undergarments (are stockings strictly undergarments?). I was behind the privacy of closed doors. But I didn't realize that things would quickly progress to horrendous.

Walking briskly back to work, I tried to take small, clenching steps. But my efforts were to no avail. I looked down, and to my horror, I spied the top of the lacing ringing my left leg, and the progress had been helpfully highlighted by the long slit in my skirt.

I froze. Embarrassed. My pride, trying to hang on. Rob told me to keep walking, assuring me that it wasn't a big deal. Walking erratically, I pulled over at an ATM, threw my foodbag on the little shelf, and grabbed the lace, trying to pull it up straight. Rob looked at me, and I wailed, "DON'T LOOOOOK ATTT MEEEEE!"

And he responded, "I wasn't. I turned away."

So I reponded, in true female fashion, "What? Why the hell not?"

We crossed the street, and I grabbed an available bench in the tiny park, parallel to a long line of cars stopped at a red light. Deciding to ditch the decorum, I sat down, stretched my left leg in front of me, reached down, and hiked up the nylons, going up to the top, the slit coming in handy for easy access. Hello, 18th St. I glanced up, and met the eyes of a guy coming my way. On his face was the shy smile of a teenager meeting a prostitute for the first time, and I hastily ran to catch up to Rob, hissing, "Donn't leave me."

We crossed another street, back at the spot where I had first confessed my wardrobe issues. I was tempted to duck into the bar and take them off, but that bar has an upstairs bathroom, and it was only marginally farther than work, I think.

At this point, Rob told me to just hold them up, so I grabbed my leg through my coat and skirt, and walked, trying to make it look less than obvious. Rob kindly said that you couldn't even notice, but when we passed a coworker, I caught him doing a double take.

Having finally learned my lesson, once I got to work I tossed those suckers in the trash, feeling no regret. Good riddance. I think this topic could bear some more investigating on my part before I make any more purchases....

Monday, January 08, 2007


catching some celebrities, a spoiler about Casino Royale

So last weekend when I was on the Mall, I took a picture of Aqua Teen Hunger Force.


Okay, so this past Saturday I saw Casino Royale. I had gone alone (because that's what fiercely independent, fun, smart girls do), and was a bit peeved when someone sat next to me. I mean, I know the theater was full, but I felt awkward laughing out loud having a stranger sitting next to me.

I found the movie to be entirely satisfying, and I loved the part when Bond caught the gun that was whipping by his head, then threw it and clocked the bad guy with it. It was such an efficient move.

However, the ending didn't sit right with me.


So, in the final scene, Vesper stole the money in order to save her boyfriend, as well as to rescue Bond from the clutches of a homoerotic torturer. Got it. As she was handing over the suitcase in a picturesque Venice spot, complete with pigeons and dusty motes, she was grabbed by a man with an eye patch.

Who the blazes was this guy? Why did a bad guy come out of nowhere? And why did he have to have an eyepatch, making him obnoxiously similar to the bleeding eye guy? I mean, two villains with eye issues? It's a bit much, if you ask me.

Whereas I should have been experiencing horror and stress and sadness while the building was sinking, I was just bewildered. Why would Vesper lock herself in the elevator? No one needs a martyr. Who was the man without an eye? I thought bleeding eye man had been killed? Was it him, just wearing a dapper hat as a disguise? Was it?

According to Wikipedia, Vesper gave the money "to a mysterious organization only vaguely alluded to throughout the film."

Ah, of course. I understand the concept of there being multiple villains in the world, but a second man with an eye problem was just a bit much and not-too-thoughtfully executed. You can't introduce someone in the last scene and have him resemble another baddy. It's not kosher.

Oh, and lest you think I'm all Miss Negativity, Daniel Craig is ridiculously appealing as James Bond. Something about a man who comes back from the dead, and have his first words asking the girl if she's alright, just gets me.

*heart melts*

Thursday, January 04, 2007


Welcome to my palm

Today after work Mel and I decided to buy some makeup at our favorite little store, then get our nails done at my favorite little nail place.

Since it was payday and I was apparently dying to treat myself, I bought a crapload of shiznit. Gabrielle had gone to town on my face, layering on lip gloss, bronzer, two different shades of eye shadow, concealer ("You can hide everything!" she sang out gaily, as she covered up my freckles), and two more shades of lip gloss.

Hustling to get to the nail place before it closed, Mel and I passed by a girl sitting on a plastic chair, with a huge Palm Reading sign set up beside her. We walked by, hurriedly, and I craned my head back to take a second look. I have a hard time resisting a good palm reading, and it had been too long.

Getting to the nail place, I was horrified to find a big CLOSED sign on the door, along with a little sign saying that it was closed due to construction. There was no re-open date listed.

Why? Why? Don't they realize that I'm obsessed with that place, and my nails are in horrendous shape? I can't go back to having random people do my nails, scraping away at my skin with nary a care in the world, least of all the concern of cutting me and making me bleed. And, I can't take the judgment another place will pass on me for letting things get this bad...

(Wow. Superrrffiiccciaaaaalllll time!)

Put-off by that unexpected bummer, Mel and I started back toward the Metro. We passed the palm reading girl, and I asked for her prices. It was $5 for a crappy reading, $10 for a less crappy reading, and $20 for a glorious two palm and face reading.

I pondered for a second whether or not my freshly slapped on concealer would alter my face reading, and asked for the $10 one-palm reading.

Palm girl instructed a protesting Mel to sit down in the plastic chair next to the huge sign (ohhh I wish I had had my camera with me!!) as she brought me to a darkened set of stairs 10 feet away. Playing the gypsy, she took my proffered $10 and stuffed it in her bra.

Asking for my right hand, she stared at it. Not knowing what else to look at, I stared at it. And, since palm readings aren't like birthday wishes, I share my results without hesitation.

The first thing she said was that I was going to have a long life. Yeesssssss. And she said that during my long life, when I'm older, I won't be alone, I'll always have people around me.

Hmm. Did I look needy to her? Someone who was afraid of being alone? I suppose I did look a little vulnerable and lost, not knowing where to go to get my nails done.

She said that I'm going to get married once (I said "awesome!" at that), and that I'll have three kids.

She said that lately I've been wearing a big smile for family and friends, but that my heart hasn't been light, and at nights I feel alone, and that's when everything comes crashing down and to a stop, and when I focus on my troubles. She said that I've been having stomach, shoulder, and back pains, and that worried her.

Her big dark eyes stared into mine, and my shoulder experienced a sharp pain. Witch! I didn't know what to say, so I said, "Umm....yeah....I guess my stomach has been hurting a bit more than usual..."

The smile thing was right, in that my default face is a smile. If I'm nervous, I smile. If I'm listening, I smile. If I'm complaining, I'm likely to smile. And, in face, I was slightly smiling while she was talking to me. And I have been weighing things on my mind, but I'm not a martyr. In fact, I overshare and complain and confess to anyone with ears.

Then she said that I wasn't happy with my career, and where it was going. I mean, I guess today wasn't a glorious day, but I'm certainly happy with my career and can't think of anywhere else I'd rather work. So I worked on giving her a blank look to see where she was going.

She said that she could see me in a teaching or nursing field, and I was like "Teaching sounds cool, but definitely not nursing." She said that she was surprised, and asked me if I was sure, because she saw me surrounded my children, but also writing, and learning.

Sensing a dead end, she finally segued to the juicy stuff: love life.

She said that I've been especially unlucky in the past three to five weeks, and I said yeah, even though I wasn't thinking that it's been particularly unlucky, or worse than the previous months (years?). (Oh yeah, I just remembered that earlier she had said that 2006 hadn't been that good of a year for me. I was thinking that it had certainly been A-OK, but I had given her a serious and encouraging nod.)

She said that she was worried about my love life, but couldn't read enough on my one palm, and wanted to read my other palm, and my face.

I briefly considered it. But I'm not overly concerned about that area of my life, not enough to pay extra to have my palm and face read, so I demurred, saying that I didn't have a lot of money to spend. Reading my face (for free! a-ha!), she shot to the heart of the matter, and said, "$5. For both face and palm."

Tempting, but then I remembered that I only had a $20 in my wallet, and that would look bad.

So I refused, and thanked her. Her little ghostly look never left her face, saying that she wished me the best in my life, especially in my love life. Um, thanks?

So, in review...

In the future, I'd skip her. She was too busy trying to get me to spend more money, and she freaked me out the way she was staring at me. Although, if I recall correctly, that's the M.O. of palm readers.

And, if anyone wants to get their palm read, there's a place on Connecticut Ave, north of Dupont, and that lady says the fun stuff...for example, when I saw her two years ago, she named the initial of the person I'm going to marry. Fun! None of that downer "You're crying yourself to sleep" business. The woman on Connecticut Ave predicts drama, affairs, passionate affairs, winning the lottery. It's solid entertainment.

And what is all of this for, if not for entertainment?

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