nyt and credit cards

i know i haven't written in awhile, and i really don't have much to say now. except that i was reading an article on the NYT website entitled, "given a shovel, americans dig deeper into debt." this article was 4 pages long. every time i moved on to the next page, i got a pop up ad from american express. booooooo!!!!!

i typically only use credit cards for big purchases that i can't afford right now but feel compelled to make, i.e. plane tickets to see my family on holidays. but i slip every once in awhile, and when i do that, i tend to do it big. also, when i do this, my car will immediately break down, or i find out that i need to pay various fees or fines. i think this might be the universe's way of telling me to cut up all of my "shovels."

I was tricked by children's literature!

I’ve been thinking about the “Problem of Susan” for awhile now, ever since reading Neil Gaiman’s short story of the same name in the collection Fragile Things. I loved, loved, loved the Narnia Chronicles series when I was a kid. There were talking animals and secret passageways and witches….what else could a 10 year old fantasy enthusiast ask for?

I was in for a shock then, when the professor of my first literature course in college wondered aloud whether he should allow his child to read the books even though they contained a heavy-handed Christian ethic. WTF was he talking about? I didn’t remember any Jesus stuff in there! I resolved to reread the series. I only got through the first book. The symbolism leapt off the page and slapped me in the face. It was cloying, overly simplistic, and it made me angry. I felt tricked. Thinking critically back, I suddenly remembered the end of the series. Didn’t everyone but Susan end up in Narnia? Why was that again? I went to the library, found the C.S. Lewis shelf, and pulled down the Last Battle, and flipped through it. Apparently, everyone in Susan’s family…no seriously, everyone….dies in a train wreck and they all go to Narnia, but she can’t go because she was interested “in nylons, lipstick, and invitations,” and this made her “no friend of Narnia.” Susan’s adult femininity had made her unfit to be in paradise, or apparently, her own family’s presence. I was furious. Apparently, I’m not alone. The author of my favorite books, Philip Pullman also finds Lewis’s treatment of Susan to be noxious:

You're not alone in attacking Lewis but you are really vehement in your criticism. You've called his books 'detestable'. Why do you feel so strongly about them? Because the things he's being cruel to are things I value very highly. The crux of it all comes, as many people have found, with the point near the end of the Last Battle (in the Narnia books) when Susan is excluded from the stable.

The stable obviously represents salvation. They're going to heaven, they're going to be saved. But Susan isn't allowed into the stable, and the reason given is that she's growing up. She's become far too interested in lipstick, nylons and invitations. One character says rather primly: 'She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown up.' This seems to me on the part of Lewis to reveal very weird unconscious feelings about sexuality. Here's a child whose body is changing and who's naturally responding as everyone has ever done since the history of the world to the changes that are taking place in one's body and one's feelings. She's doing what everyone has to do in order to grow up.Maybe one day she'll grow past the invitations and the lipstick and the nylons. But my point is that it's an inevitable, important, valuable and cherishable stage that we go through. This what I'm getting at in my story. To welcome and celebrate this passage, rather than to turn from it in fear and loathing.
Taken from an interview with Pullman at http://www.surefish.co.uk/culture/features/pullman_interview.htm

Writer J.K. Rowling has been quoted as saying “There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She's become irreligious basically because she found sex," Rowling says. "I have a big problem with that.” So do I. Given the choice between these amazing writers’ takes on Susan, and on the pro-Lewis articles (which I find are largely written by Christian-themed sites), I’ll stick with the former. If you haven’t already, I recommend listening to the audio book of Fragile Things, giving particular attention to The Problem of Susan. Why the audio book? ‘Cause Gaiman reads it, and he is awesome.

In a related story, my husband convinced me to see the new Narnia movie this weekend. Interestingly, the movie producers have decided to spice things up by having Susan plant a big sloppy kiss on Prince Caspian at the end. It was about the only part of the movie I enjoyed, and that was only because I’m sure it would make Lewis roll over in his frackin grave. Hee!

Briefly rocking out with The Detroit Cobras

I went to my first show at the 9:30 Club—a longtime DC favorite—last night. The headliner was X, a band in which I, as a person born in the last throes of the Carter administration, have absolutely no interest. However, a sort of retro-style 60s blues riff band called The Detroit Cobras was the opening act. Which is a pretty sweet band name. Pretty sweet band names are currently an obsession of mine as I just finished reading King Dork by Frank Portman. The main character and his stalwart friend in the alphabet have a mostly imaginary band, and they keep changing its name. Some of my favorites are the Chi-mos, Green Sabbath, and Tennis Rackets as Guitars. But nothing beats the author’s band name, the Mr. T Experience.

Anyway, so I’m at the concert, waiting for it to start and drinking my small $6 beer and having deep conversations with my husband about what nerds we were in high school—all in all, a pretty good time. The band finally comes on, and they are pretty fun in a boppy sort of way. Plus, the guitarist looked, as my husband said, “scary, like a girl you could never be sure whether she was going to kiss you or punch you in the face.” She was pretty rough-looking in a super hot kind of way. I was getting in to the music and dancing all around. So were about 5 other people. The rest of the audience? Looked like stone statutes. It was as if when I quickly hit the restroom before the set, Medusa had been the first opening act.

My conclusion? People in D.C. either a) don’t like to have a good time; b) do like to have a good time, but don’t like other people in D.C. to see them having a good time; or c) they really just thought the band sucked. I’m pretty sure it was option b. However, I think the band thought option c was probably it, as they played every song one after another with as little bantering as possible so that they could get their asses off stage and medicate their East Coast induced frostbite with liquor ASAP. So we only got about 30 minutes of music for our $25 tickets. Thanks D.C.!

an example of why i should have to wear a helmet

Okay, so this happened awhile ago, but I think I've finally stopped cringing about what a dork I am and can actually revisit it. It was 21st, the Friday before x-mas holidays, at about 3:30 in the afternoon. I was itching to leave work--I didn't have any assignments to do as I was switching departments after the break, the entire hall was empty of coworkers (who apparently had more vacation hours with me), and I was bored out of my mind. I was also worried that the xmas hat I was knitting for my husband, http://brooklyntweed.blogspot.com/2007/10/cap-karma.html, (in a lovely locally spun yarn I found at a DC Craft Mafia fair) was not going to get done on time. I finally decided, "what the hell" and pulled out the cap to begin finishing the decreases under my desk. So intent was I on my project that I didn't notice my new boss softly knocking on my partially open door. When he rapped louder, I jumped about three feet in the air and immediately dropped the project, which made a clanking noise as it hit the ground. The ball of yarn bounced and rolled, but luckily, did not escape the area beneath my desk. He looked at me with bemusement, probably wondering why I looked so guilty. Nonetheless, he asked me to take a tour of my new office with him.

While talking about that with him, I was slowly trying to ease the mess of yarn and needles more fully under the desk with the tip of my foot. Satisified that my contraband was safely hidden, I stood up to follow him out. As I strode to the door, I noticed something was dragging along behind me. Dammit!!! The effing yarn had wrapped itself against my foot! I ever so casually leaned against my office door for support and asked him a complex legal question while I desperately tried to shake the yarn loose by wildly kicking my right foot. My new boss raised an eyebrow, but began to answer my question. As he continued, I attempted one last fervant shake, and the ball of yarn finally came loose. And rolled to a stop right in front of his foot. I refused to look at it. My boss, a consummate professional, did not allow this to stop him from completing his answer. However, he couldn't help continually flitting his eyes down to stare at the mess on the floor. When he returned his gaze to my face, I quickly kicked the project out of sight and said "thanks for the clarification on that issue. I'd be happy to see my new diggs!" We continued on the tour and never spoke of the yarn incident again.

Shattering the Ivory High-Rise

Last week, I went to a pro-bono clinic sponsored by a local non-profit sponsored by a DC law firm. Its suite was gorgeous. The hallways were large and had floor to ceiling windows which let in a flood of sunlight. The flooring and walls and seating were all in light neutrals. The conference room was elegant, and the breakfast offered contained a plethora of choices. No, really, a freaking plethora. They even had French toast and bacon. I was well-fed and soothed by the tranquil environment.

I turned to the woman to my left and tried to start a conversation about the posh setting. She told me that she worked at another firm, and then immediately said in emphatic tone “I don’t like my job.” Her confession was like a separate entity with a mind of its own—and it refused to remain silent any longer. She looked embarrassed, mumbled something about paying off student loans, and turned back to studying her handouts. Later, during a break in the program, I went to get more delicious breakfast. The woman, and all of the other firm attorneys present, immediately pulled out their blackberries and started furiously typing, forgoing conversation and breakfast to snatch a few minutes of email review.

Often, I wonder if I made the wrong choice by going into the type of work that I did. This experience has not caused me to stop asking that question. But it did lay to rest one issue---should I have just sucked it up and taken the money? The façade falls away, the light-filled hallway seems a cage, and I’m glad to still be living on a budget.

Sheep!!!!

I went to the lovely and wonderful Sheep and Wool Festival in Howard County, MD on Saturday. I pet a sheep, I bought some yarn, I decided I wanted to keep an alpaca as a pet, Phil reminded me that a one bedroom flat is not the best place for a farm animal, I was in sad agreement, and I cheered myself up by purchasing yet more yarn. I'll post some pics soon. The stuff I bought was amazing. I tried to convince myself that it will work for my project which requires 880 yards of worsted wool, even though I only bought 800 yards of sport weight wool....hmmm....I guess the Yarn Harlot is right and Denial is not just a river in Eygpt.

ROTFL about LOTR

Yesterday, to celebrate my esteemed husband's birthday, we went to a Lord of the Rings marathon at the local cinema drafthouse. Sure, the lines were long, the prices elevated, and the beers smaller, but if we hadn't gone we would have never been able to see a grown man dressed as an elf carrying a picketing sign protesting the exclusion of Tom Bombadil from the movie. We valiantly made it through the first two movies by subsisting on buffalo chicken wings, pizza and beer. (I even got to knit the entire increase of the right front side of my mystery sweater!) But faced with the prospect of yet another 4 hour movie that we had both seen innumerable times before, we had to admit defeat. Damn you Peter Jackson!

Now, I'm sure you are thinking, Gary Gygax . . . zombie lectures . . . Lord of the Rings marathon . . . (and quite possibly, who the hell is Tom Bombadil), and are coming away with the conclusion that I'm an enormous nerd. And you're probably right. But look around at the popularity of video games, scifi, fantasy, and horror in the current cultural zeitgeist, and you'll understand what I've known for years. Nerd is the new black!

Attack by the force of cuteness on the evilness of Monday afternoon

One of my fav sites, http://www.jezebel.com, compiled a gallery of their commenters and their first pets. here's my pic: http://jezebel.com/photogallery/pastfashionspets08/1001211444. Check out the other photos. One chick had a monkey!!!

Color Quandry

I'm knitting another circular shrug, which I dicussed here: http://publicknitter.blogspot.com/2008/03/yesterday-i-knit-in-public-while.html
I stopped working on it, because I can't decide if I love or hate the color combo. The reddish pink and purple yarns initially seemed to go, but lately I've been wondering if I'll end up in Rainbow Brite territory. Any knitters out there? What do you think?

Tales of Oxford

So, if any of the readers know me, or my friends Avè or Ana, you will no doubt have at least heard of (and are probably sick of) our stories of our short summer at Oxford. But if you can still stand to hear more, here's another.

I've been dragging my feet about posting this story, because I don't think it is entirely quite there yet. I'm toying with the last few sentences of the ending, and my description of Ana, which I think comes off a little wooden. But I'm hoping that by posting it, I will suddenly be fired up with a desire to get to work. Yeah.

Also, hell yeah I used a footnote in a short story. Occupational hazard.


The Portly Porter

When I arrived at the heavy wooden doors of University College, my appearance could only be described as a “hot mess.” I arrived after staying up all night on my first transatlantic flight, experiencing for the first time the joy that is going through customs, catching a bus to Oxford, and finally trying to negotiate my 60+-pound wheeled luggage over 1,000-year-old cobblestones. Sweaty and out of breath, I approached the porter’s window to receive instructions on what to do next. A portly man with graying hair and an amused expression asked, “You all right then?” After assuring him that I would be great once I got to my dorm room, he pointed me in the right direction and offered me the keys. I took them and looked blackly at my suitcase. “Remember to lift with the legs,” he suggested helpfully, and then laughed.

I had come to University College on a summer study abroad program. The University had emptied of its own students, and rented its space to my college, Emory, along with the University of Virginia and Southern Methodist University’s law school. After settling in my room and making myself presentable, I ventured out to the program’s introductory garden party, being held in a precisely manicured courtyard. At the party, I picked up a tall glass containing dark and spicy liquor served ice cold and garnished with cucumbers. It tasted strange and bitter, but I continually sipped it so that I would have something to do with my hands and an excuse for being silent. I surveyed the scene, first coolly, and then with increased desperation, looking for a conversation to join. I hit pay dirt when I overheard a few women discussing Toni Morrison’s Beloved. Fantastic! I thought. I can discuss the shit out of that book.

As I approached, a black girl with long braids and muscular arms was applauding Morrison’s use of imagery in the novel. I was about to mention that I particularly liked the passage about Baby Suggs’s fascination with color, when a man in a gardener’s uniform appeared at the girl’s elbow. “Anyone seen the gatekeeper?” he asked.

“No, but I am the Keymaster,” the girl said with a mischievous grin, referencing an exchange from the film Ghostbusters. The gardener looked confused and walked away as I began to laugh.

“Keymaster, huh?” I said, “you sure don’t look like Rick Moranis.” A tall Latina girl to my right began cracking up. The three of us immediately ditched Toni Morrison to discus the hilarity of Bill Murray and other 80s pop culture references. Slowly, all of the other women who had been standing near, trying to participate in the Beloved conversation, drifted away.

The Keymaster, Avè, had an eclectic personality. She had been the homecoming queen at her San Antonio high school despite the fact that she was also a self-described “band geek.” She also was the most-desired guest at a host of Emory parties, but still got every single reference I made to the B-movies I spent my Saturday nights watching. The tall girl, Ana, was like a more laid-back version of the Fonz—cool, yet imminently approachable. She was also a chameleon. Although she appeared—and for the most part was—all sweetness and light, there were moments where she would quietly unleash a torrent of wicked humor that would have us rolling with laughter, while nearby people not in on the joke looked at us with confused expressions. In short, both of these girls were much, much cooler than me, and I desperately hoped that neither of them would notice until at least the end of the summer.

I particularly admired Avè for the adroit way in which she interacted with others. Just about everyone I met, from professors, to librarians, to bartenders felt comfortable speaking with her as if she were their best friend. So naturally, I was not at all surprised when I learned she had befriended the man I had come to think of as the “portly porter,” and whose real name was apparently, “Dusty.” I speculated that a person named “Dusty” was more likely to be a 1930s Oklahoma ranch hand than a 1990s British security guard. “No joke,” Avè said with her most serious face, “this man is awesome.”

We went to speak with Dusty at the porter’s window, and he rewarded us with his repertoire of slightly blue jokes about Texas and Winnie the Pooh. He gave us the inside scoop on the college and the strange and sometimes perverse actions of students which he had been called to deal with over the years. Hanging out with Dusty was certainly more interesting than another night of sitting in the pub watching SMU girls totter on the flagstone floor in 4 inch heels or listening to Emory boys discuss philosophy as only drunk and self-important college students can. We often returned to the window for chats. On one occasion, Dusty felt comfortable enough to show us his anchor tattoo from his British Navy days. Luckily, he did not feel comfortable enough to actually show us the tattoos on his chest, but he did inform us that those above his nipples alternately read “sweet” and “sour.”

During one of our chats, Ana, a hopeless guidebook addict, was complaining that she wanted to see more attractions in the area--especially Blenheim Palace, in nearby Woodstock—but that it was difficult to get there by bus. Dusty immediately offered to drive us there on his upcoming day off. Without really thinking about it, we happily agreed.

Two days later on a Sunday afternoon, we all piled into Dusty’s tiny car. He pulled out of the college’s gates, cleared the pedestrian and bicycle clogged streets of downtown Oxford, and turned onto a curvy country road. The drive was a little nervewracking. I’m not sure if it was simply my disorientation at being on the “wrong” side of the road, or whether Dusty drove faster than was strictly necessary, perhaps trying to give us a quick thrill. Regardless, as promised, he delivered us to the Palace. It seemed large, and—at least to Avè and Ana—impressive. I was pretty much just along for the ride. After a childhood rife with “historic” vacations, and a mother obsessed with estate tours, I would go blank at the mere mention of antique wallpaper preservation. While they marveled over the Palace, I spent most of my time wandering along the lawn and pondering why the site’s operators allowed sheep to roam it willy-nilly. Dusty neither sheep-watched with me, nor looked over the rest of the Palace with Avè and Ana, preferring to sit on the hood of his car.

After Ana and Avè sated their sight-seeing desire, we told Dusty we were ready to go. He asked if we’d like to come back to his house for dinner. We agreed and stopped at a take out curry house to order some dinner. Dusty bought it and also treated us to some neon-pink wine coolers of indeterminate flavor from the liquor store next door. He told us that we could go wait in the car while he paid.

Once back inside, Ana looked uneasy. She paused, looked as if she were about to say something, and then paused again. Finally, she asked, “did anyone else see Felicia’s Journey[1]?” I solemnly nodded. I had become increasingly uncomfortable with the situation, imagining what my mother would say if she knew what I was up to.

I posited how stupid we would look in the newspaper if he killed us, and half in jest, but half seriously read an imaginary article out loud, “Three young tourists dead. Before being bludgeoned to death, the young women were last seen allowing a middle-aged man that they barely knew buy them wine coolers. They then left with him to go to an undisclosed location.”

“Come on,” Avè said with an expression that one usually sees directed at errant children. “Quit acting like that. You know Dusty is not a serial killer. He’s probably just a little lonely. He’s been really great to us, so knock it off.” Her statement rang true. It hadn’t occurred to me that the usually gregarious Dusty might be lonely, or that he had offered to take us out, not simply because he wanted to do us a favor, but because he didn’t want to spend his day off alone.

Instead of putting me at ease about Dusty, Avè’s words made me feel even more uncomfortable. Thinking of his loneliness reminded me of how lonely I had been in the months before my time with Avè and Ana. In the preceding semester, my best friend had moved out of our apartment to study in Washington State, my two other good friends at Emory had dropped out and moved across the country, and I had been hopelessly in love with a boy—not even my boyfriend—who was hundreds of miles away. But in Oxford, the tables had turned. My life had regained inside jokes, adventure, and a sense of belonging. I didn’t recognize Dusty’s loneliness because I didn’t want to. My gut reaction was to recoil from him as if he were contagious.

As I sat on Dusty’s worn sofa in his small, but well-kept flat that night, I fought against my overpowering desire to distance myself from him. I tried, but couldn’t exactly recall how I had participated in a free and easy flow of conversation with him mere hours earlier. Luckily, my participation was not required. In true form, Avè asked a few well-chosen questions and soon had Dusty telling us all about the people in his photos, his little dog, and his Navy days. As she and Dusty, and eventually, Ana, chatted and laughed, I slowly began to relax, and fell into the rhythm of their conversation. Once again, my social awkwardness was hidden by the efforts of my more adept friends, and I was grateful.

As I thought about my intense reaction to the situation the next day, I found myself having trouble reconciling Dusty, the lonely divorced man, with the outgoing Dusty I knew. What had caused him to get there? How could someone so charming be alone? More importantly (to my young and self-absorbed mind), can I prevent that from happening to me? But, I soon had classes to attend, and sightseeing to do, and beer after beer to throw back. It turns out that there is only so much self-analysis that a 20 year-old can manage while in the midst of an extended holiday. And in the end, I found wisdom in an unlikely place when I remembered Dusty telling us about his nipple tattoos. Life is sometimes sweet, and sometimes sour.



[1] Felicia’s Journey is a movie, based off a book of the same name. In it, an Irish teenager heads to England to find the boy that got her pregnant. She is befriended by an older and seemingly friendly British man who eventually tries to rape and kill her.

Tell me why I don't like Mondays...

Status 8:58 a.m. Monday morning. Arrived here only 10 minutes early this morning despite leaving the flat earlier than usual. Admittedly, only left 10 minutes earlier than usual but somehow expected this to place me at work half an hour early. Must get clarification on the intricacies of the space time continuum.

Got my standard coffee at the Korean deli. Pay first, then fill up my cup. This reverse order of mine tends to confuse the other customers. But anyone who knows the landfill that is my purse/knitting bag would understand that it is best not to excavate for a handful of change while holding piping hot coffee. What if I spilled? I’d probably burn myself. Even worse, then there’d be no coffee. The old man behind the counter understands.

I begin the halting dance of filling up my cup at the economically laid out counter, diving in for the creamer, dodging another patron's arm as I grab a lid. Not everyone is comfortable with sharing the coffee set-up table. The same people who think nothing of shoving me onto the metro and risking my amputation by subway door are suddenly full of false patience as they wait for me to complete my turn at the counter. Every morning, I do my best to just beat this type of person to the counter, cheating if I have to. It’s not that I’m a bad person, it is just a small power which makes the rest of the day livable.

I walk through out the unfortunately hued marble hallway up to the security desk. The woman recognizes me. I come in every day and present my silly badge which I could have just as easily made myself at Kinkos. She lets me through. I have a feeling that if I forgot it, down in the lobby I would stay. No old enmity or rivalry exists between us as although she knows my face, we are strangers. But I suspect that she would keep me out all the same. It’s not that she's a bad person. It’s just small power which makes the rest of her day liveable.

Knitting needles are not weapons!

I'm heading off to sunny Arizona for a week today with a bathing suit, shorts, and 3 balls of yarn. Come on, I have to have something to do on the plane. Although I'm always convinced TSA will try to confiscate my knitting needles at the gate, so far it's not happened. Fingers crossed!

My writing class has ended, but some of the participants have asked me to join an outside group with them. This is awesome, because pretty much the only detraction from the class was my boozy nutjob old teacher and the cost. So now I get criticism from people I respect, for free! Yay!

We are supposed to think up a topic to write on for our first class. I'm fresh out of ideas, so if you have any suggestions, please post them in the comments

A Portrait of the Blogger as a Little Girl

This was the 2nd writing assignment from my class. We were supposed to pick an item that stood out in a childhood memory.

Lazy Susan Brigade, Spice Division

My grandmother’s house in Nashville was a treasure trove. In her bedroom sat a tackle box full of sequins, buttons, and red silk thread. I would wander down the hall to my great-grandmother’s bedroom and spend hours there as she showed me her collection of 1920s costume jewelry, which featured rings with stones as big as my pinkie, sparkly purple and green clip-on earrings fashioned to resemble bunches of grapes, and a bracelet with a row of little gold beetles, each with a different colored shell.

But one object captured my attention more than the others. I first noticed it when I was 5 years old. Made thirsty by the unairconditioned southern heat, I had awoken in the middle of the night. I carefully made my way downstairs to sneak a Coke. And then it caught my eye. It was sitting on the china hutch, this little circular wooden platform with a center pole topped by a delicate gold loop. Best of all, it had 12 blue and white china bottles around the circle, which looked to me like a group of soldiers making a last stand against an all-around attack. Each bottle had an unusual name imprinted in black letters. “T-h-y-m-e” one said. “Sage” said another. Strangest of all, one was named after my cousin Rosemary.

Forgetting for the first time in my life about the nearby presence of a Coke, I reached out my hand to pinch the gold loop. The base, and the bottles with it, moved slightly. Encouraged, I turned the loop and let go. The bottles quietly clacked as the base made a full rotation. I was interested. I turned it again, this time a little faster. The clacking noise increased. So did my curiosity. I carefully pulled it down from its perch on the hutch and placed in on the kitchen table. I climbed up into a chair and spun it again. Harder. This time, one of the soldier-bottles fell off. I plucked out the two soldiers who had been next to him, and they wept over their friend’s body. But, when all hope was lost, I made him jump up, and ta-da! He was alive! Undeterred by the near fatal carnage, I put them all back for another run. This time I spun it really, really hard. We lost several men that time as they flew off the platform and made pretty good distances across the kitchen. When I retrieved “Bay Leaves,” he was not in top form. A bit of a nick across his top. I remained unfazed.

Normally, breaking something would have made me nervous. All my short life, I had been a fairly obedient kid--the sensible one--as opposed to my hellian older brother, Matt, whom my mother sometimes described as “the best argument for Ritalin” she’d ever come across. While Matt’s rampages could usually be stopped only by actual punishment, the slightest narrowing of my mother’s eyes would deter me from any wrongdoing. I sensed that now I was being very, very naughty, but I couldn’t stop. I had been drawn in by this game of my own making.
I readied the soldiers and sent them on another launch mission. This time one of them made a terrific noise when he crashed into a nearby brass pot. When I had just finished setting them up again, I saw my mother appear in the doorway looking sleepy. As she surveyed the scene, her eyes began to narrow. Against both instinct and reason, I said “Look Mommy!” and sent those bottles flying.

H Street

So I finally made it over to H St a/k/a the Atlas District last night with Phil, Ave and Will. It was pretty damn awesome. The bar we went to was super chill--it had about 5 people other than my friends in it, the drinks, while still pricey to this Midwesterner, were not ungodly, and they apparently have a Ninja Warrior happy hour. If you don't know the Ninja Warrior my friends, do yourself a favor and check it out. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ninja_Warrior

The place also had a slamming jukebox and we rocked it out to 70s southern rock pretty much all night. The bartender even gave us $5 to spend as he trusted our musical taste. Unfortunately, I had to go and break that trust by playing Journey. I couldn't help myself. I can't stop believing in Steve Perry's talent.

My last writing class is tonight, and I'm hard at work on revising an essay about my short time in Oxford. If I don't get booed out of the class, I'll post it soon.

More Cherry Blossoms

As promised, for all of you non-Dcists, here are some of my better cherry blossom pics. Okay, so technically that last one isn't a cherry blossom photo. But aren't kids climbing trees awesome?

High Flying Kites

Here is the cavalcade of kites flying near the Washington Monument and the Capitol. They had all different styles--I saw pirate kites, bird kites, shark kites, and even some Barbie kites. The parrot kite on the right flew high for a long time, but eventually crash landed right on its beak. We have a kite down!

I gotta say though, my favorite was this homemade number by the little girl on the left. She made it out of cardboard and police caution type (and it actually flew, albeit not so high). It makes me feel better about the future when I get to see resourcefulness in children.

DC Moment

This is the full version of the shortened story I submitted to Hototoki DC. For the first time in my scholarly career, I ignored the assignment my writing teacher passed out (write a review of spas in D.C., wtf?), and wrote my own thing. Chronicled here is the story of the weirdest person I ever met in a bar. Enjoy!

On Pick Up Artists and Ice Cream

It was a breezy summer night in 2002 when my friend Avè and I strolled through the door of The Raven, a dingy little bar in Mount Pleasant, DC. I was pleased with the look of the place; the owner’s clearly laissez-faire attitude towards upkeep signaled that I would be able to afford more than one drink that evening, even on my pitiful salary. I asked at the bar about drink specials and was delighted to learn that the $5 bill in my pocket would allow me to buy two import beers. Avè and I got some drinks and slid into a red vinyl bench accentuated with rips—some fresh and some which were poorly patched over with grimy duct tape.

“So what did Chuck do this week?” she asked me regarding my vicious boss who generally made me want to fling myself into the Potomac but also provided me with some pretty great happy hour stories. I launched into my current tale of injustice. “Dude, that’s why I’m still in school,” she teased. We continued to catch up on our respective weeks and were permitted about 15 full minutes to enjoy each other’s company before a man sitting at the bar decided to improve our evening with his presence.

He was a tall black man in his late twenties and carried a slightly battered briefcase as approached our booth. He set his case down on the floor and put his hands flat on the table. “Well, well, well, look what we have here,” he smarmed. “A black girl and a white girl having some good times.” His tone was salacious, as if he expected that at some point later that evening we would be engaging in some hot interracial lesbian action. His sly expression read that if he played his cards right, he might be witness to, or perhaps even a participant in, such an event. Oddly enough, we had heard this astoundingly bad pick-up routine before—most recently from a white man in a sports bar in Brookland.

I pulled a face as he slid into the seat next to Avè but knew that he would be allowed to stay, at least for a while. It typically takes both women to reject a would-be pick up artist, and I knew from experience that Avè, sensing some good material for future drinking stories, would give this jackass enough rope to hang himself. He did not disappoint.

After telling us how fine we were, he asked Avè what her ancestery was. When she answered that her parents were from Guyana, he proclaimed his love for Africans in general and Ghanaian people in particular. I cringed, knowing that few things annoy Avè more than when people mix up Ghana and Guyana. Her eyes narrowed, and she set him straight. Eager to shift focus away from his error, he turned to ask me the same question. I told him that no one in my family could really remember far back enough to know what country we emigrated from, but that I guessed I was probably at least part German, based on my last name.

“Oooooo, a German, huh?” he said with a slowly spreading grin. “I know all about you Germans. Y’all are freaky.”

Avè’s lip started to twitch, but she composed herself and, while looking at me with wide eyes, asked in her most innocent tone of voice, “Oh really, I was not aware of that fact.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They’re all into that S&M shit. I bet you like that stuff, huh,” he asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Avè silently bowling over with laughter barricaded back by her hands tightly pressed over her mouth as I replied coldly, “No. Maybe I’m not German then, I guess I’m pretty vanilla.”

“Shit, girl, I bet your vanilla is like other people’s Rocky Road.” The barricade broke, and Avè roared with laughter. He looked at her, and asked, “What, what did I say?”

She laughed for a few seconds more, grabbed hold of herself, and began digging her in purse. She came up with a pen and told him, “Only the best thing that I’ve ever ever heard.” Then she used the pen to write on the bar napkin, “Your vanilla is like other people’s Rocky Road.” When she was finished, she slid him the pen and napkin and demanded that he sign and date it, so she that she could properly commemorate this moment. He did so.

Sensing that at least his romantic pursuits were futile, the man pulled up his briefcase from the floor and opened it on the table to reveal an array of homemade feather and bead necklaces and inquired whether we would be interested in purchasing any. We declined—strike three for him. As he walked out the bar and Avè continued to wipe away tears of laughter, I took a swig of my beer and resigned myself to the fact that, at least for a couple of weeks, I would be known as “Rocky Road.”

I Heart Photoshop!

We went to see the cherry blossom trees along the Potomac this weekend. I'll be posting some more pics of that soon, but first I had to pause to profess my love of photoshop. If you don't already feel me on that, check out the before and after pics on the left. It almost makes me look like I'm a good photograph!

Knitting on the Bus

I decided that I couldn't deal with being squished in the Metro this morning and so took the bus instead. It was awesome! I got four rows on my super secret sweater of mystery completed. A man even switched seats so that he could get a better look at what I was making. He tried to be surreptitious, but I caught him looking :)

Cat Attack!

We have visitors from Columbus, the lovely and charming Ami and Jim. Unfortunately, we only have a one bedroom apartment, and two cats. I'm pretty sure Seamus and Moira, cat 1 and cat 2, launched some sneak attacks upon them as they slept on the air mattress. Sorry guys! I promise we'll switch tonight. My cats know the wrath of the squirt bottle and so will fear me too much to try anything tricky.

I submitted a story to Hototoki DC today. It was agony, because I really liked it in all of its 896 word glory, and it had to be chopped to a paltry 500 words. Hopefully the spirit remains the same. I'll post the full version next week.

Sugarplum Shrug

A couple of weeks ago, I finished my toughest knitting project to date. I had to start it over about 4 times because I have a little problem trying to watch movies with subtitles while I do lace knitting. The two do NOT mix. Anyway, here she is...a little big...but loved nonetheless. Now if the effing weather would just warm up, I might be able to wear it!

For all the knitting fans out there, I substituted Shibui Silkcloud for the Rowan yarn called for in the pattern (IK Holiday issue). It was less than half the price and was gorgeous!

Zombie Preparedness

Last night Phil and I went to a lecture given by Max Brooks, son of Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft, and more importantly, author of the amazing World War Z: http://www.randomhouse.com/crown/worldwarz/

I "read" it in the sense that I listened to the audio book version. Which was awesome. It had Mark Hamil, Henry Rollins, John Turturro, and Meathead Reiner lending their voices. Plus, I listened to it only on the Metro, which increased my awareness of any potential zombie threats.

But back to Max. He was funny, quick on the fly, and remarkably composed in the face of all sorts of weirdos asking him weird questions, like "What's the deal with the zombies in Legend," like, duh, those were vampires or "should you spend time trying to turn the zombies back into human?" No! They are dead already! That's the guy who is going to get eaten by his wife when he refuses to accept that she had turned into a zombie and lingers to look searchingly into her eyes.

Afterwards, I realized my zombie escape plan does have some faults...I'm totally going to have to invest in a sledgehammer...

Drinking Stories

It's been just about 5 years since I found my favorite watering hole in the world. I wrote this essay about it for my 3rd assignment. It was supposed to be centered on a particular place, but as usual with me, I ended up focusing more on the people in the place.

The Scottish Invasion

When I was 23, I left my mind-numbing secretarial job in D.C. to try my hand at being an illegal immigrant. My then-boyfriend, now-husband, Phil had taken a job on a military base in Germany. Since we weren’t married yet, I wasn’t permitted to come live with him. That, like many things in Germany, was verboten. I came anyway, expecting a jet-set European lifestyle but ending up as a haus frau in Stuttgart, a city which is roughly the German equivalent of Detroit. My favorite description of Stuttgart was made by a Berliner who said that the only way he would ever find himself in that city would be if he woke up there after being beaten and stuffed into a sack.

In short, I had kind of a tough time adjusting. One night, to cheer me up, Phil decided to take me out to dinner. While walking, I spied a restaurant called “Mexicana.” We rushed in with thoughts of burritos dancing in our heads. The interior was unexpectedly modern with no sombreros plastered on the wall or piñatas hanging from the ceiling. In fact, the only indication of the restaurant’s cultural leanings, other than the name, was a high shelf lining the room and containing precisely arranged bottles of Jose Cuervo gold. A man standing behind the bar shook his head and said something in German. We froze. The man repeated his statement in a louder, more irritated voice. I got a sick feeling that I had probably done something verboten again. Phil ventured a timid “Zwei?” The man blustered in a thick British accent, “no damn you, I’m closed!” “Oh,” Phil said, “I’m sorry, we’ll come back another time.” The man’s expression immediately changed from a stern mask to a friendly grin, “Oh wait, you’re Yanks? Come in, I was just kidding.”

Looking back, I can’t say with certainty whether it was the quality of the food itself or the fact that it was a tangible reminder of my much-missed home but after I had gorged on buttery smooth and spicy guacamole, perfectly-seasoned carne asada, and several sour and sweet margaritas on the rocks, I was convinced that this was the best Mexican food I had ever tasted. Proprietor and apparent friend of the “Yanks”, Collin, sat down with us as we ate. He told us that he was born in England, raised in South Africa, taught to cook in California, and been brought to Stuttgart by a fickle fraulein who now lived in Berlin. Most of his business came from the nearby American military base, and so he welcomed us with open arms. His friendliness was refreshing as we had arrived in Stuttgart just after the United States declared war on Iraq and had been running into a fair share of anti-American sentiment from the locals. We ended up becoming regulars. There was always something going on at Mexicana with Collin or his cadre of odd patrons, and I relished the drama in my otherwise too-quiet life. I garnered many of my drinking stories at Mexicana. This is my favorite.

I came into the restaurant and noticed that Collin was suspiciously eying a rowdy group of 8 or so men in green and white jerseys. He told me that those “Scottish bastards” had come through Stuttgart last year and had completely smashed up Molly Flanagan’s, an Irish pub down the road. He smiled briefly at that thought—he and Molly were rivals with an always hinted at, but never fully revealed, past. But his face soon darkened as he contemplated potential hooliganism at his own establishment. I wrote his concerns off as being the product of the long-standing enmity between England and Scotland.

However, it turned out that they were in the mood for some mischief. Almost immediately after Phil left for the restroom, the Scots began hitting on me. Because of their thick accents, I could only understand one of them, and he was nominated by the group to be the translator. Phil returned, yet they continued their pursuit. Risking a beating, Phil good-naturedly asked if they were even speaking English. “English??” one yelled, “NO, we’re speaking Scottish!” At that point, I fell in love with them. From Phil’s raucous laughter, I figured that maybe he had as well. They pulled up their chairs to our tiny table built for two and bought us drinks for the next few hours as we did our best to try to understand each other.

At one point, the translator looked me straight in the eye and began to caterwaul what I imagine was meant to be a Scottish ballad. I held his stare and shoved my fingernails into my thigh to keep from bursting into laughter. Once he had finished, he began trying to coax me into sharing a song of my own homeland. His enthusiasm was not dampened by the fact that the only such songs I knew were the Star-Spangled Banner and Rocky Top, Tennessee. Luckily for me, and for the ears of the patrons, Collin chose that moment to appear at our table with a tray of shots. He authoritatively stated that he was closing and would call them a couple of cabs. They shouted a cheer for their team and downed the shots. Then one by one, they all gave me a hug good-bye and walked out. I wondered to myself why Collin had given the men more liquor if he was worried about their appetite for destruction, and got my answer when I overheard him on the phone with the cab company directing the drivers to take them to Molly Flanagan’s.

Supreme Court Knitting

Yesterday I knit in public while waiting in line to get into the Supreme Court. For three hours. In heels. But, on the bright side, I got a good chunk of my circular shrug done: http://momcast.blogspot.com/2006/01/craftster-circular-shrug.html

I'm using this awesome reddish-pink yarn made out of recycled sari silk that Mili got me for my birthday. It has little flecks of all sorts of bright colors. I'm also planning on using some very soft silk/merino blend wool in blackberry to do some striping. I'll post some pics once it's further along.

Going to the argument was strange. The lawyers both made really good cases, but it was about a federal preemption issue, and I can't help but feel sorry for the group of what looked to be 3rd graders on their school trip. Might I add that Clarence Thomas sat slouched in his seat, with his head lolling back and looking incredibly bored the entire time. Wow. And one of the attorneys accidentally called Justice Breyer "Steve". Double wow.

Charm City

Mili and I went shopping at Lovely Yarns, an adorable yarn shop in Baltimore this weekend. Hampden, the neighborhood the store is in, is probably the best part of Baltimore. It's famous for beehived ladies and pink flamingoes. I highly recommend it!

We also ate the best pie ever at http://www.dangerouspies.com/. Holy crap. Mili had a chocolate chess pie, which tasted more like a brownie on pie crust--soo good, and I had a really tangy cherry pie slice.

Yay Baltimore!

In Memoriam of Gary Gygax

Hey to all of my 3 readers. This essay was the 4th assignment in my writing class--we were supposed to write a satire. I had to look up the precise definition of satire before I began. Yes, I was an English major. Yes, I am bowing my head in shame. I decided to write something in the style of the Onion's op-eds. With the news of Gary Gygax's death, and the Darkon documentary on IFC, this subject was occupying my mind recently.

I will be avenged!
By Lord Fenwick of Gillygate

“Warriors! Mages! Brothers in arms! Our fair kingdom of Darkon has been befouled, the plains of La’nag have been overtaken by a pervasive evil…what? What do you mean, “where are the plains of La’nag ?” Haven’t you been in the guild for like, two years now? Whatever, it’s past the soccer field, near the picnic area. Jesus. Anyway, a foul enemy, Caldorn, has betrayed me, your noble leader, and thus us all. No, not Kyle, Caldorn. Caldorn! You know, that guy Steve? You met him the other day at my Lord of the Rings marathon. Yes, that guy who was hitting on Trish. I mean the Lady Niviana. Thanks for promptly bringing that to my attention by the way. Jerk.

As Hadrian the Fair just helpfully pointed out, it was at that merry gathering where the seeds of Caldorn’s treachery were sown. His hands were swift to light the Lady Niviana’s clove cigarettes, his feet were fleet in bringing her flagons of Moutain Dew and Peach Schnapps, and his eyes were oft-times fixed on her bounty. Her bounty. Yes, I mean her tits. Are you done laughing? I’m not going to continue if you keep interrupting me Jeff. No, I’m not going to refer to you as Hadrian the Fair until you can act with the maturity of the level 12 fighter you are supposed to be. Done? Okay.

At the party, I was full of cheer, and admittedly, spirits, and so failed to recognize that Caldorn’s intentions toward mine lady were anything but pure. However, I quickly discovered my folly. The next day, the Lady Niviana called me to cancel our outing to the Ravenna Renaissance Fair, claiming that her evil overlord was requiring her to work an extra shift at Hot Topic®. I was sympathetic to my lady love’s plight as my own overlord, Bryan, can be such a douche sometimes, and decided to bring her some savory victuals from Sbarro® to dine on during her lunch break.

On the way to Hot Topic®, I cast mine eyes in the direction of Barley’s Brew Pub across the mall to see what specialty ales the barmaid was serving up. There I saw that blackguard Caldorn clasping mine lady’s hand! Whilst I was halted by the shock of such betrayal, Caldorn stood, kissed Niviana—who is decidedly, no lady—and went to the bathroom. I strode to the bar to confront this inconstant trollop. She told me that she “needed a break.” According to her, I take my duties as the leader of this guild “too seriously.” When I noted Caldorn also engages in live action role playing own membership in the guild, she told me that “Steve” thought the guild was “lame” and was going to quit and take up co-ed soccer instead. Soccer?? I should have known of his low character last month when I spotted him buying an NFL-themed PS2 game.

Caldorn is a villainous rogue who has made a cuckold of me! We will be avenged of his base treachery! Leofrick the Terrible, grab your mace, Hadrian the Fair, ready your sword, Fendral Silverleaf string your bow! What’s that Hadrian? How could you forget to bring your sword?? Okay, you know what, Jeff? That’s it. I’ve had it. You are officially out of the guild. No, don’t bother apologizing, it’s too late. I’m changing our story line so that your retarded character is easily picked off by a level 3 mage. I don’t care if you are my brother man, you deserve it.
The rest of you, make for the plains of La’nag where I have it on good authority that Caldorn is currently playing a soccer match. Although our numbers are few in comparison with the soccer team, we have the greatest advantage--that of surprise.