Archive for August, 2008

Today’s Metro Lesson: Let’s Make Metro Better!

August 29, 2008

For no apparent reason other than:

1. I am avoiding Real Work and

2. I am consequently bored and

3. It’s a Long Weekend so I feel the urge to post something that might contribute to the Good of the Populous, I going to throw out some Suggestions on How to Make Metro Better.

Brace yourself.

First, I think it’s an Universally Acknowledged Truth that Metro doors don’t function like elevator doors. They close and stay that way even if a bag or stroller or my butt is still between them. Once they have begun to shut, the only way to get them open again is with Arms of Hercules. The Ridership is well aware of this situation thanks to Metro’s Education Efforts. Things like PSAs broadcast in the stations and warning signs in trains have gone a long way to raising Public Awareness. And in case anybody has tuned out Metro’s efforts, there is always the Helpful Commuter willing to call a person a Dumb Ass when they get caught in a door. But despite all this, Door Diving still occurs. I don’t know why. It just happens. And on behalf of everybody who has been a victim of Metro’s Death Doors, I would like to humbly propose a solution: Metro outta get some new doors. No, not doors that function like their elevator kin. If that happened, a train would never be able to leave the platform because everybody would try to sneak in last minute. It’d be a never-ending case of open and shut. Instead, Metro needs doors with an electric current. If a person tries to enter once the Doors Closing Message has sounded, BAM! There’s a little dose of Metro Love. It’ll solve the Door Diving problem. Guaranteed.

But Door Diving isn’t the only Annoying Thing On Metro. There’s so much more. For example, there’s people who take up an extra seat with big bags during Rush Hour, the Litter Bugs, and the folks who think Rock Concert is an acceptable headphone volume. It’s all a form of Metro Rudeness and these people need to be stopped. So, let’s try this solution: $5 for the average SmartTrip Card; $25 for SmartTrip Card tricked out with an Idiot Dart Gun! Then, if a fellow Rider is being immensely irritating, rude, or otherwise obnoxious, just point that little dart gun and fire. I consider it a Gentle Reminder to Do Unto Others. Also, it might be nice to have a “Three Darts and You’re Out” policy. Of course, it would be standard to issue the Metro Police the Anti-Idiot Super Striker version versus the Basic Commuter Model.

Also, I would like to acknowledge how clean Metro is. Snaps to all the hardworking Metro Trash People! Your efforts are recognized! I know that compared to mass transit in Chicago or NYC, our Metro is a Germless Heaven. Still, I miss being able to bring my morning Diet Coke on the train. Commuting without sufficient caffeine intake does not make for Good Times. Thus, I humbly suggest that Metro offer Caffeine IV drip thingies. With commuters mainlining their morning dose, there’ll be a lot more General Commuter Happiness. Heck, get Starbucks involved and watch a Mass Transit Revolution begin.

Next, separate cars for tourists. Self explanatory.

With tourists in their Own Special Area, it’ll put a dent in the Screaming Kid Problem. But there will still be some random Kid Riders. Sure, I generally like children but those Riders who have dealt with Another Person’s (Howling) Bundle of Joy during peak commute time know that kids and Metro don’t mix. While I am tempted to suggest a Total Child Ban, I realize there might be some impracticalities involved (re: upset parents). In the alternative, I think Metro should begin the distribution of Ritalin to the Wee Riders. That should calm ‘em down. If not, there’s always Vicodin.

Once the Child Problem is adressed, next on Metro’s Fix It List should be Cell Phone Talkers. The proposed policy: Cell phone conversations are fine. But only if conducted in American Sign Language.

And I think Metro should investigate a new Promotional Concept. Sort of like Metro’s own special version of Happy Hour. Let’s call it Free Grope Friday! It’ll be understood that between certain predetermined hours on Friday, anybody who cops a feel can be slapped, kicked, or otherwise beat down by the molested. No questions asked. No assault charges filed. It’s just payback for being pervy. It’ll be fun.

Finally, at each station platform, I would like to see vending machines which dispense the following:

1. Deodorant

2. Inflatable Personal Space Bubbles

3. Nose Plugs

4. Anti-bacterial Wipes

5. Idiot Dart Gun Refills

6. These

7. Leave Me Alone Signs

8. ESOL books so nobody approaches you for directions

Random Links

August 29, 2008

My friend, Bekah, just sent me this Jib Jab thing. And of course, she picked a picture where I was in a slightly vodkaed state. Apparently, I can do the Hustle. Go me.

Amy just informed me that I am running for President. Who knew.

Today’s Metro Lesson: You take one for your football team

August 29, 2008

Yep, I was the crazy person today on the Metro and boy did I get some Serious Looks. It was understandable. I mean, how often do you see a person wearing a nut necklace during the early morning commute? Apparently very few people in The District are familiar with the Wonders of The Ohio State University Football Team and the resulting fandom. Being a True Fan who is psyching up for the Season Opener tomorrow, I decided to keep with Tradition and sport my OSU gear at work. Yes, I know that actual game is not for 24 hours, but in the Holy Land (aka Columbus, O-H-I-O) people break out the jerseys on Friday* and Saturday. During football season in major swaths of Ohio, Fridays mean jeans and OSU paraphernalia, even in the work place. I was not about to be left out just because I transplanted.

While jeans are a no-go at the Place of Lawyerly Things, I am totally wearing my Block O earrings and my Buckeye necklace. The coup de resistance is I’m “Sporting a Tressel.” For the unfamiliar, that’d be a sweater vest. Mine just happens to be scarlet. Oh, and my long shorts thingies are regulation gray. I’m in full OSU Glory and I look too cute for words.

And just so you know I’m not the only crazy person today, Big Boss is wearing his OSU belt, he’s Sporting a Tressel with an OSU logo (hard core) and…wait for it…he’s wearing a temporary Block O tattoo on his cheek. Maybe I’ll do that next week.

Go Bucks! (See, even Jesus is on board.)

* Note the copier and files in the background. Like I said, I am NOT making this up.

eCrush Boy’s Fashion Travesty, or My Eyes are Still Burning in their Sockets

August 26, 2008

The email I sent:

eCrush Boy –

Thanks again for bringing over dinner last night. Soup and US Weekly go a long way to making a girl feel better. You are a gem.

Hugs, Me

The email I wanted to send:

Dear eCrush Boy:

Initially, I had no words. Horror had overcome all else. But I’ve had all night to come to grips and I find that I, in fact, do have a lot to say. Primarily:

Oh. My. God.

If you persist in wearing madras pants, we are going to have to break up. While I really like you, I also have Standards and those Standards do not allow for fugly anything. Were you aware that in some societies (well, actually, all of them), madras pants are considered an abomination? Yep, people see them as a blight on all things leg wear. More awful than leg warmers. Worse than Crocs, even.

I don’t care if they do come from J. Crew and speak to your inner yuppie. It doesn’t matter if all the trendy people in Logan Circle are wearing them. You are not trendy. Nope, you are a straight man from the Midwest. Your uniform is supposed to be flannel and khakis. Maybe a button down. While I acknowledge you now live in The District and have gone all Metrosexual, that means the realm of socially acceptable fashion has now expanded to pink shirts. NOT madras pants.

Don’t do it again.

Yours in disgust, Me

The Cab Ride From Hell

August 22, 2008

First, let me say, I am not making this up. This really happened. Hand to God.

After leaving Second Job I Do for Sanity Purposes, I was not exactly a Happy Camper. My feet were tired, I was schlepping some big grocery bags, and I had a mile-ish walk ahead of me. As I was resigning myself to another twenty minutes of misery before I made it back to Chez Apartment, I saw a cab. Clearly it was a sign from God that I was supposed to Get My Lazy On, so I hailed it.

The cabbie had me about a tenth of the way home when some blue flashing lights started reflecting from the mirrors. He glanced in his rear view, peeked at me, and said, “What this mean?” I replied, “It means pull over. The police want to talk to you.” The driver replied, “I am not from this country.” His voice held no evidence of panic or confusion or anything. Totally monotone. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to tell me he didn’t grasp basics of The Police Pull Over and I should explain, or if he was lacking important documents, like say, a Green Card, or what. So I decided to play it safe and just sat there. He kept driving for another half block until he once again looked over his shoulder at me and then eyed the mirror. At this point, I realized his face was not reflecting Good Things. Just as I was about to whip out Lawyer Voice and tell him to pull the damn cab over, he hit the gas.

A block later: cue the siren.

Yep, my cabbie was trying to engage in a high speed chase down Wilson Boulevard in Arlington. Ain’t that precious?

I sat there for a moment, totally stunned and not believing this was my life. I kept wondering why there were no seatbelts, if this made me a hostage, and if so, was Little Sister prepared to identify my body after the brutal police shoot out that was sure to ensue? Plus, I was really upset that I was about to die wearing Crocs. I mean, if I was going to go out in Hot Pink Gnome Shoes, that totally would throw the concept of Universal Justice out the window. Oh, and then I started to bargain with God.

When we reached the point on Wilson where it sort of snakes to the left directly before Il Radicchio, one of my grocery bags slid across the back seat, spilled, and I realized I really did not want to die in plastic footwear. The thought was enough to bring out my alter-ego, Panicked Girl. I started screaming at the driver that he had to pull over because Angry Police are not the same as Fun Police. Hadn’t he seen COPS? It’s Iconic Television. And from the depths of memory, I started spouting the definition of kidnapping. My Torts Professor would have been proud. As the driver continued pushing 65 (which is Major High Speed on Wilson), I was desperate. So I pulled out the big guns. I told him that if he didn’t stop immediately, I wasn’t going to tip him. Apparently, “tip” is the magic word.

He pulled over.

Very Angry Policeman approached the car, gun drawn. Yeah, gun. I sat there, hands up, about to pee my law-abiding pants. No way I wanted to get shot. The Officer yelled for us to step out of the car, which I was happy to do. Except my door was locked. I yelled back that I would happily step out of the car but there was a small hitch, that I was stuck thanks to safety locks and I was just the innocent passenger. I further explained that I was totally in favor of pulling over and obeying important things like The Law and I thought the cab driver was Nutso. From that point on, things go blurry in my memory. I am told this was due to Shock.

I remember the cabbie being pulled out of the car and patted down. I remember two more cruisers arriving and a Nice Police Person letting me out of the car. At some point, somebody gathered my groceries (except my eggs and grapes, which never made it back into my bag) and gave them to me. There was the part where I told them what happened and gave them my phone number. And then I walked home. Which, I now realize, I should have done in the first place.

Oh, and my bargain with God? No more Crocs.

The gChat Diaries

August 21, 2008

The random things people have said lately…

Jill: I think my copy machine is in a union. Might explain why it won’t work.


Me: It’s not nuts. It’s American.


RR: I have my inner soundtrack.
Me: You have a soundtrack, I have a dialogue…


Bekah: BTW, Tropical Fruit Trident is really good.

Me: Meh. I prefer my gum minty. And from the Makers Of Orbitz.


Me: Oh! I’ll use wheat noodles! That screams “I am posh!” Right?


Jill: I bet Metro with a tazer would be fun.


Me: That’s how I was with the Kardashians show. Me, a marathon, couldn’t stop.

Debi: Oh God. Never admit that again.


Me: As a rule, my life is sucktastic and this here event does not qualify as sucktastical. So, when does the sucktacular come to town?


Me: Breathalyzers should be attached to all forms of technology. It’ll be a public service. A new way to prevent the drunk dial, the drunk email, you know, the ways we all manage to embarrass ourselves after the vodka’s kicked in.


Him: I’m going straight.

Me: Then lose the pink popped collar.


Me: The X-2. Sandwich perfection, with a side of Avocado.


Friend running for something vaguely political: So my cousin offered to help me go door-to-door…but she wants a job if I get elected. I’m like, I need the jobs to bribe the people who AREN’T obligated to help me because they’re my FAMILY.

Me: So undying love is not enough to get someone to pass out fliers?

Friend running for something vaguely political: Apparently not.


Me: That’s selfless sacrifice. Are you sure you want to?

Deb: Meh. I’ll just bring booze.


G-Chat Buddy: Did you know you can buy pee test strips at Wal-Mart? You know, for drug testing.

Me: Seriously?

G-Chat Buddy: Yes. And I have also been told you can get three step kits for getting cocaine out of your system.

Me: Well, that’s handy.

(a minute goes by)

Me: Porno?

G-Chat Buddy: How about Porn Star: The Legend of Ron Jeremy?

Me: They really have got everything.


Me: I got seven hits to my blog in a row from freaking Congress. Looks like the Senate flunkies are bored. Shouldn’t people at those places be doing real work and not reading my blog during work hours?

G-Chat Pal: Staffers are bored too, yo.

Me: Sure, but save the environment or something instead.

G-Chat Pal: But saving the environment v. reading your blog…I don’t think they’ll find that choice difficult. I Mean, f*ck you dolphins, f*ck you! Katherine almost drowned her cat…hahahaha.

Me: Wonder what they were like when that white bangle tiger ate Roy?

About last night…

August 20, 2008

My nearest and dearest have all basically been updated regarding my Big Cooking Adventure with eCrush Boy. We had fondue, hung out, blah blah blahdity blah. The thing I didn’t mention:

Lactose intolerance is evil.

In case anybody was wondering.


August 20, 2008

You know those “if you like this, you might like that” things? The ones websites generate based on purchasing history? Well, I think there’s a message here. I just need to figure out what it is…

Things Amazon thinks I need:

1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer Comic Books. Me? Comic books? I think not.

2. Dr. Freud’s Psychotherapy Ball. Ok, I admit that one is a good suggestion.

3. The Superfly Slingshot Flingshot Flying Screaming Monkey. Hours of office fun! Sold!

4. The Teen Girl’s Gotta-Have-It Guide to Embarrassing Moments: How to Survive Life’s Cringe-Worthy Situations. Somehow, this still applies to my life. And I’m almost 30. Christ.

Blockbuster suggested I rent:

1. Howard the Duck. Hey now, I like Howard the Duck. A lot.

2. Sexette. Mae West in her 80s. A musical necrophiliac adventure. Totally renting it.

3. I Know Who Killed Me. LiLo’s finest hour captured for the Viewing Pleasure of All Mankind. Plus, a stripper pole. Good to see Blockbuster thinks highly of me.

At least it hasn’t recommended Gigli yet.

iTunes wants me to check out:

1. I’m Too Sexy by Right Said Fred. I’m too sexy to own this song, too sexy for the song, too sexy!

2. Paradise by the Dashboard Light by Meatloaf.  My secret wish is to karaoke to this.

3. Mmmm MMmm Mmm by Crash Test Dummies. Sadly, this is on my iPod.

4. Barbie Girl by Aqua. This one too.

5. (You’re) Having My Baby by Paul Anka. Um, pass. Thanks for playing, iTunes.

6. Wilson Phillips: Greatest Hits. This gem includes songs like Hold On and Release Me and other assorted anthems that defined my tween years.

I Am Doomed, or why I should never open my mouth

August 18, 2008

Maybe it was because the evening was so perfect that it would usually make me vomit. Or perhaps I just got caught up in the General Haze of Wonderfulness. Could also be that I just really like this guy. But for some reason, amidst the stars and the wine on Saturday evening, I expirenced a Moment of Crazy and asked eCrush Boy if he wanted to come to my place after work on Tuesday. My Loony Alter Ego even volunteered to cook dinner.

By All That Is Holy, what the f*ck was I thinking?

See, after we got done biking around Old Town Alexandria and having a wine and cheese picnic dinner thing (yeah, I said it was too Puketasticly Adorable for words), we headed back to eCrush Boy’s and I spent the night. But nothing happened, Interwebs. Well, at least nothing that I couldn’t tell my Grandmother about. With some editing. But anyway, the entire point is that I have seen the inside eCrush Boy’s apartment and it is Designer. There’s exposed brick and matching and furniture that didn’t come from Target. In fact, a lot of it is black and real leather and shiny. Very Male With a Sensitive Side And A Good Decorator. My place can’t compete.

My apartment is The Best Part of the ‘80s Meets Single Girl with Shoe Addiction. My two nice pieces of furniture came from Ikea and cost a combined $39. The uncomfortable green Poverty Barn Outlet couch I bought as a temporary sofa solution? Still in service after three years and now looking a little worse for the wear. Nothing else in the place matches. Even the carpet is in bad shape thanks to the recent Great Flood and Bionic Kitty’s stomach issues. It feels like I tried for Bo-Ho Eclectic Chic but only managed to achieve Garage Sale Passé.

While the logical, sane side of me says this should not be a big deal and that eCrush Boy will not be judgy, the insecure side is a bit more vocal. I have enough stuff working against me in this relationship; at least I would like to have an apartment that is somewhat on the same Adultness Level as his. It’s bad when I realize his couch costs more than my entire decorating scheme. I know I’ve perfected the Single Girl Lifestyle over the years. It’s low on desks and high on pedicures. Plus, I have felt no compulsion to invest in anything other than my 401(k) and Manolos. Generally, this works for me. Except now I have Somebody Coming Over and my apartment screams Loser Who Can’t Even Afford a Table. This part, I don’t like.

Frankly I am not even sure where I am even going to feed eCrush Boy. My dining table, which is the best that Bed Bath and Beyond has to offer, currently serves as my desk. Relocating my Mac and two tons of papers is not to be undertaken lightly. Most days I eat standing up in the kitchen. If I’m feeling really fancy, I will sometimes sit at the coffee table (which my dad lovingly made). Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t see the guy who has a dining table Ethan Allen describes as “modern glamour” standing around by the stove and eating the main course from the pot.

To make matters worse, there is a Bed Issue. I am not ashamed to admit that I only recently traded in my twin for a double. Heck, I probably would still be sleeping on that twin, if my brother and his fiancé hadn’t had a bigger bed in need of a good home. In theory, there is nothing wrong with a double. It’s perfectly adult and a socially acceptable size for small apartments. But as with all things in my life, disaster struck the bed when I agreed to take it: during transportation to my place, there was a small accident and the box springs broke. Nothing major or that demanded it be replaced immediately. It just occasionally collapses and I have to sort of jerk it back onto the frame about once a night. I’ve always intended to buy a new box spring. But I keep putting it off. Why replace the current one when there are shoes to be purchased and the collapsing doesn’t really bother me? But now I am wondering how quickly I can have one delivered.

And I haven’t even figure out what I can cook beyond Chinese Delivery.

World, this is me hyperventilating.

Ordering Lunch

August 15, 2008

Being a top dog at the Place of Lawyerly Things, it occasionally falls to me to make the tough decisions. Things like: Is this an event worth celebrating as an office? And if so, what food do we order for the minions’ Congratulatory Lunch? Yep. I am a Person of Importance. I make Big Decisions. And then I generally let my administrative assistant take over and magically, the food shows up and we are all fed. It’s a great system.

This morning, I felt that office morale was more or less in the toilet and nobody was appropriately excited for the upcoming weekend. The troops needed to be perked up. After all, it is Friday. Joy should be felt across the land. Or at least my office. I decided it was too late to plan a post-work Happy Hour, plus I have post-work plans. Instead, I opted to break out the Lawyerly Credit Card and have my admin order pizzas for my team’s lunch. Just as I was about to talk to Admin Wonder about the merits of Papa Johns versus Luigi’s, she approached me with a personal emergency. Everything will be fine eventually; she just needed to leave for the rest of the day. Not a problem. I would hold down the fort: do my own copies and order the pizza. I broke out the credit card, a menu, and dialed.

Them: Pick up or delivery?

Me: Delivery please. (and I gave them the information for the Place of Lawyerly Things)

Them: Whats you want?

Me: I need six pizzas please. Are you running any specials?

Them: Yeah. Five larges for $50. Up to five toppings each.

Me: Great. I’ll do that and get an additional pizza. (And I went on to order five specialty pizzas in order to eek the most value out of the special as I could) And I’ll have an extra large cheese.

Them: Slow down. I didn’t get nothin’ past your veggie luva.

Me: (going through the order again, speaking l………..i……….. k……………e t…………….h……………….I………………s) And an extra large cheese, please.

Them: You said you only want five pizzas. Now you want six?

Me (eye roll): Yes. At the beginning, I said I needed six pizzas and you told me about the special. So, I want to get the special and then an extra large cheese.

Them: Computer not lettin’ me do that. You can only order five per order.

Me (thinking about stabbing my hand with a paperclip because it might distract me from the pain my brain was experiencing while talking to this moron): Um, so I can’t get my sixth pizza.

Them: I just says you only get five. So your total is…

Me: Wait, I wasn’t done ordering. I need to add more.

Them: You sounded done.

Me (wondering if the Vulcan Mind Melt really does work, and if so, does this person have any mind left to melt): You said talk slowly, so I did. Talking slowly does not mean I was done ordering. I still need to get a dessert pizza and breadsticks and drinks.

Them: What kind of dessert pizza you want?

Me: The cinnamon kind.

Them: We have two. Swirly and Regular.

Me: I’ll have Regular, please.

Them: We don’t carry that no more.

Me: So you only have Swirly.

Them: That’s what I says.

Me (head hits the desk repeatedly): Uh huh. So you don’t actually have two; you just have Swirly.

Them: NO, we got two. Swirly and Regular.

Me: But I can only order Swirly.

Them: Yeah.

Me (trying to reign in my overwhelming urge to go Xena, Warrior Princess on their ass): OK, give me a Swirly.

Them: So your total is…

Me (our species is doomed if this is the result of millions of years of evolution): WAIT! I still need breadsticks and drinks.

Them: I put on an order of breadsticks. What kinda drinks you want?

Me: A 2 Liter of Coke, Diet Coke and Sprite please.

Them: You knows them the Big Ones, right? Them 2 Liters.

Me (who is totally feeling enlightened, having learned 2 Liters are the Big Ones): Yeah, we need the Big Ones.

Them: What kind you want again.

Me (pounding fist on desk): Coke, Diet Coke and Sprite.

Them: That all? That all you want on this order?

Me (telling self that this is nearing the end and I can hold on, just a few more minutes): Yes, thanks.


Me (disbelief that words cannot begin to describe): They did not just hang up on me.

*sits there for a minute*


*calls back, sort of trance like*

Me (after the same person answered): Hi, do you want to get my credit card information or is lunch free today?

Them: Oh. Yeah. Guess that’d be good. Visa?

Me: AmEx.

Them: Visa?

Me: American Express.

Them: What? Visa?


Them: So it’s not a Visa?


They could hear me scream in Foggy Bottom. I swear.

So I hung up and ordered from the other place.