I finally have a job!!! After a month and a half of searching, I've found employment at a public relations and advertising firm here in Alexandria. The office is this fantastic three story modern-meets-traditional townhouse in Oldtowne.
Wanna know something sob-worthy? It's less than 6 miles from my house but my commute today was nearly 40 minutes. Yikes.
I'm just glad I can finally throw off my maid's apron and get Adam back in the kitchen! You hear that, homeslice? I'm bringing home the bacon so get the pan ready!
About a year ago, while visiting my parents (Ad was at a smart people convention, I'm sure) we found a little blind kitty by the dumpsters and decided to take it home. After all, a cat could do worse than live with Mark & Deb (let's keep it easy by saying they believe in Fancy Feast).
My father chased it down and put it in a box. Of course, it was a stray and of course, it was scared out of its wits. We took the box home and to the back porch to do the unveiling because, with a railing and a drop of about 15 feet, we thought we had the kitten cornered.
We were wrong. We opened the box, whereupon Blind Kitty jumped out, ran to the edge of the deck, and leapt off. We watched as Blind Kitty headed west through 3 feet of rotting March snow. Now, what would you do? Leave this poor, stupid thing to die or chase after it?
We chased it. Now who's stupid? We did succeed in finding Blind Kitty some hour later on the neighbor's porch stairs crouched with its face in the corner going into what we cat people call "lock-down". It didn't even fight us as we picked it up, put it back in the box, and returned it to the dumpsters.
Poor, stupid Blind Kitty. You coulda had Fancy Feast! You coulda been a contenda! *sigh* My point in telling you this rather long-winded and seemingly pointless story is the part about the lock-down. Now stay with me here.
I have a recurring nightmare consisting of me and the Taurus on Dupont Circle at 5:00 pm. My hands and face are drenched with perspiration. Jay Leno is in the seat next to me telling endless political jokes and Taylor Swift's faux country voice booms through the speakers at an earsplitting decibel. As I attempt to merge right, not one soul will let me in and instead, engage in honking at me. I put the car in park right there, unbuckle my seat belt, climb into the back, and bury my head in the seat crack.
In essence, traffic situations push me into lock-down. Blind Kitty and I are kindred spirits. Yes, folks. I have amaxophobia or fear of automobiles in traffic.
I thought the purchase of this little baby would help: And while we love Sam (as she has been christened) and have taken her into our lives with open arms, she still doesn't curb my fear.
The only thing that seems to help is public transportation. That's right. I'm saying that if I ride the bus, Metro, or train, I have no fear of being bumper-to-bumper.
The problem is that the crazies are also drawn to being publicly transported. My pockets are brimming with anecdotes, as you can imagine. So I'm creating a new platform and I'm calling it "From A to B". Anytime you see a post so titled, you can expect verbal sketches of [hopefully] interesting and humorous incidents taking place on any of the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority's vehicles.
I do hope you enjoy.
I'm making no apologies for this little beauty's brightness. This season's must have is anything burnt orange. See? There's just one teensy little problem. My quest: to find THE shrug.
Attempt numero uno: Hummm....cute sweater. Great over an extra long tee. Or even with a high-waist pencil. Love the elbow sleeves. Love the open knitting. Paid wayyyyy too much for it. I'm pretty sure cotton doesn't go with silk.
Verdict: Where did my waist go??? Hopefully I'll find it when I take this cover-up back.
Attempt #2: Oooo, I love the 75% off rack. And my hips feel whittled. The fabric is high-quality and honestly, nothing but a meatball sandwich beats a hip-length cardigan. Something is wrong, though. Wrong cut? Paired with this dress, yes. Wrong length? Perhaps. Wrong style? It's like that time I attempted pointed kitties with wide-leg chinos.
Verdict: For 12 clams, I'll make a spot in my closet but I'm going to stop channeling June Cleaver now.
Attempt #3: A one button shrug made from linen and organic cotton? Yum. Waist-length, so it still shows off the darling leather belt. It was a crapshoot because I sent away for it but I'm really liking the round neck and the longer sleeves. Do we have a winner?
Verdict: The perfect sweater has been found! Case closed!
I'm off to see where my invite for dinner at the White House is.
Adam: "So, how was it?"
Emily: "Good. They're a great couple and they have an adorable baby. Her husband's going to law school, too, and wanted to know how you were liking it. I told him you were adapting really well."
Adam: "That's cool. What was he like? Would I know him?"
Emily: "I don't think so. He was more....sporty"
Adam (with look of disgust): Really?
Emily: "Yeah. He also asked what you liked to do."
Long drawn out pause
Adam: "What did you tell him?"
Emily: "I was kinda stumped. I said 'Well, he likes to read...'"
Emily left the room and began editing her pictures, while I sat on the couch, in front of a sandwich, a TV playing Monty Python's Flying Circus episodes, a stack of cases for a paper I was writing, and my computer. All of sudden, the sandwich didn't taste so good and the Monty Python episodes weren't so funny. For some reason, I couldn't think what I like to do either.
Remember those papers we filled out at the start of classes, summer camps, youth activities, and job applications that had the question "What are your favorite hobbies?" I guess I must have skipped over that one because I can't think of one thing I enjoy doing! I don't like any sport; I used to play golf, but, as many of my friends can testify, I am to golf what clowns are to a rodeo. I'm not outdoorsy; the fear of my own stench and my dislike for dirt have prevented that. I don't hunt/fish because the one time I killed something I felt like I should be tried for war crimes. I play a couple of instruments, but a) I don't have room for a piano and b) I married one of the few women in the world who doesn't want me "strumming her pain with my fingers" (take that whatever way you want). And I don't really get off on computer/video games. Heck, I'm PAST nerdy: Halo players at least have interests! Worse still, this list takes care of anything that's remotely masculine.
So, as I've sat here making a list of the things I DO like to do I can't think of one that counts as a hobby. Eating doesn't work, except for depressed women. In a similar vein, cooking doesn't count. I don't really enjoy that and I only do it out of marital necessity. Reading's just a requirement for school; I haven't read a book I really wanted since junior high. Sleeping's fun...but I'm not very good at it, especially lately. I don't paint/draw/sculpt, I don't write anything unless I have to, and I most certainly am not crafty. I can talk and I like to argue, but can you count those as hobbies?
Bottom line: I am the anti-Renaissance Man; I'm the black hole of hobbies. I like to think my fahter's genetics have caused this, but at least he likes gardening. If there's anyone out there that has a good idea for something I could starting doing, I'd really appreciate it. All I'm getting on Google is stuff like stamp collecting and a Japanese activity called "boing boing" (which sounds like something that requires more than one person). Your thoughts?
I hope you can get a good view of these shots. You should be able to make them bigger by clicking on them. Now, what does that look like to you? Go on, say it outloud. What does it look like? An old log? Perhaps severely burnt skin? A model of the earth's crust?
Here's the story: I had an interview at GW a few days ago so I took the 7:30 in with Adam. I left him at the law school, walked to the station at Foggy Bottom, and waited on the platform for the next Metro. After a few minutes, up rumbled (emphasis on the word "rumbled") the first ever train created by the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority. Not even kidding you. There were rust holes in the sides of the once-bright-yellow-now-putrid-grey-colored cars and a high-pitched whine coming from somewhere deep within.
Cautiously, I stepped over the threshold and made my way to the torn and tattered seats, my sling-backs hitting thin, squeaky spots the whole way. As my hand reached for the hand grip bar over the back of the seat to swing my bulk onto the orange vinyl, my eyes caught my hand's destination and I drew back in horror just as my fingertips grazed the bar's surface.
I'm not certain what material comprised the said grip bars, but it was clear that decomposition had begun. The word "disgusting" doesn't even begin to describe them. One spot was warn to much that a jelly-like substance was beginning to ooze from the orifice. My gag reflex was going crazy. Here's another visual: The worst part? The guy in front of me had his arm slung over one and was picking absently at the scarred flesh. Another gal was listening to her I-Pod with her head leaned back directly on the bar. I hope she washed her hair when she got home.
I'm glad Ad wasn't with me because, while I was simply pining for a bottle of Purell, he would have needed hospitalization.
Shorts in mid-September? WTF? Ad keeps wandering by the window and asking in a very small voice, "Where's the colored leaves?" He also can't get over the fact that he's still enjoying his flip-flops. I'm guessing 80 degrees is becoming a distant memory for my Western fans. Just guessing, though.
When was the last time you wore pink foam curlers with a hair net? My model prefers to remain anonymous. Plus, her green bathrobe really wasn't the best wardrobe choice, if you ask me.
You should try it, if you haven't done it in 15 years or so. The quality of sleep resulting from this beauty regimen is unrivaled. Oh, and most likely the last time you wore them there wasn't another human sleeping in the same bed as you who contemplated a move to the air mattress when you turned in.
Now, why did I post this? Yes, I do lack discretion but more importantly, while I was wrapping my slightly damp straw around the bubble gum-colored sponges I was reminded of something.
When I was a little girl, those little guys represented more than just a terrible night's rest. They held butterflies for what the following day would hold.
See, the caliber of curl produced from over-night hair rollers was only appropriate for special occasions: school pageants, church programs, holiday celebrations, etc. Instead of thinking about the restless night ahead of me or feeling self-conscious because my noggin had doubled in size, I'd get excited because tomorrow was going to be a good day.
Or it really could be that I'm a glutton for self-deprecating humor.
I had just walked into my Sophomore English class. Oddly, we had been reading Hiroshima. The irony of that literary choice still haunts me today. A late night of finishing the reading assignment the evening before, kept the pictures vividly stamped in my mind. Mrs. Covill had the television going and the scenes on the screen looked like something concocted by Hollywood. I dropped into my seat and set my gaze on the TV, but I still don't think I fully understood. Fellow classmates peppered our teacher with questions and as she explained in hushed tones about the horror taking place on the other side of the country, my mind began to piece together what I was hearing.
That's when the second plane struck producing the most unscripted spectacle live TV has ever seen and sending my peers into screams of dismay and alarm. I remember my over-imaginative teenage mind pulling the narratives from Hiroshima's pages and constructing a future of health problems, bomb shelters, and fear. What a terrible, terrible ordeal. No one wants to remember it and yet, nobody can seem to forget.
Sophomore English at Rich High. Where were you?
Mix (very well) the following ingredients together and place in the fridge for further use. Let's call this mixture the "Special Sauce":
- 1/8 cup sugar
- 1/4 cup water
- 2 tablespoons soy sauce
- 2 tablespoons rice wine vinegar
- 2 tablespoons ketchup
- 1 tablespoon lemon juice
- 1/8 teaspoon sesame oil
- 1 tablespoon hot mustard
- 2 teaspoons hot water
- 1-2 teaspoon garlic and red chile paste (this can be found with the rest of the Chinese food in the grocery store)
Put the chicken back in the hot oil, add the vegetables, and pour the "Stir Fry Sauce" on. Saute mixture for a couple of minutes. Remove from heat, place yummy goodness in a serving bowl, and top with the "Special Sauce". Serve over torn lettuce leaves with the "Dipping Deliciousness" on the side.
Yes, I really did make this all by myself. And no, A-dawg did not even have my back. He loved these though. And you will too.
Don't even worry about it though. I ran, not walked, to the Museum of American History, dragging my little boy bent double from his 50 pound backpack to personally witness the stomping ground of Julia Child.
Sidenote: I was completely disheartened in the foyer of the Natural History Museum when I found out Ad wasn't a museum buff. The foundational bedrock on which our 3 year marriage was built suffered an earthquake once this truth was revealed.
Fortunately, I'm too shallow to stay bummed for too long so I forced him to meet me at Foggy Bottom during his lunch break; whereupon, we beat cleats to the Mall (of the National variety, that is). Not only was the Julia Child exhibit the happenin' place, I had to elbow past a woman in a beehive wig and a man wearing shorts with a 2 inch inseam to get my turn at the glass.
***Low-lighting equals terrible pictures. 'Nuff said.*** And here's just some other fun that we had that day:
Here's Ad in front of the Berlin Wall. He's being reverent and pensive. Mostly he just thinks that not smiling in photos is hilarious. I'm not amused. "And we would all go down together. We said we'd all go down together. Yes we would all go down together." 10 points if you can name the artist and title. A few dresses from the First Ladies. And a woman clutching her bosom (see her reflection?). This here is Martha Warshington's. Yes, I really did just type "Warshington". Get over it. This household has a thing for Seinfeld. Seriously. If we're not home by 7:30 to watch, things get a little sticky. Ad's posing in front of the Puffy Shirt. The famous Ruby Reds. Ole shiny face had to snag a picture in front of Carol Channing's dress because 1) Carol Channing rocks socks and b) I played in Hello, Dolly! back in the day. Now, everyone email me your itineraries because I know you're going to be on the next plane out to see me and Julia's kitchen!
I just returned from the most bomb-dig trip to said beach house. The plan WAS for Ad and I to road trip it down there this Labor Day but after a slight change of plans, I caught the Amtrak and enjoyed a few blissful days in the company of my parents practicing the art of idling. It was just what the doctor ordered. The famous Lilly-esque cover-up.
Space was tight in my suitcase so at the last minute I ditched my bulky SLR *gasp*. I was still bound and determined to grab some yummy goodness with my point and shot. Shout out to my fabulous grandmother. Well, she's actually not my "grandmother". She's my "Grand Janie". The woman doesn't like the word "grandmother". She's 80 some odd and she lives a few short minutes from the beach house with that gentleman in the picture aka her boyfriend. Yes, she's so fabulous that she even has a boyfriend. She also has 3 closets full of clothes and is on a first name basis with the ladies at the mall. And I'm pretty sure SHE would never wear a blousey blue shirt with an already slouchy mango skirt thus ridding herself of any waistline. Pay no attention to the shapeless blonde ogress on the right. I'm back to reality now and attempting to get caught up on emails, job searches, and design projects. *sigh* I'm also trying not to be "beachy" because of the sand and sun withdrawals.