hey pretty

Like Sands Through an Hourglass

Yikes, dearest 19 readers, where did my autumn go? It seems that every year, I find myself trudging to work in an outer-layer not quite warm enough for the weather, bracing myself against the damp November grey, and noting that the absence of leaves on trees signals the definitive end of autumn's glory. This year, such a realization came today. Along of course, with one that I have not blogged on a regular basis in several months.

What have I been up to?

I feel like I've been on the receiving end of that question a lot recently and I can't come up with a good answer. To be honest, I can barely account for my time recently, and it has little to do with suffering from over-extension or the like. Maybe I've just been a little disconnected, floating, not really interested in examining the situation. And really, who can blame me? Much of 2009 was a bit traumatic. I began the year reeling from a traumatic breakup, rebounded with a couple of slightly bumpy flash-in-the-pan romances, then vaguely divorced myself of most romantic notions for several months. Dedicated readers will get how uncharacteristic that is for me, how I almost always have a crush of some kind, how intent I often seem on finding some guy to mess me up and make me miserable.

Beginning in August, I briefly dated a man who, while funny, smart and terrific in many ways, was not ready for a relationship. For my part, I didn't trust my real interest in him. Now we're friends, and things feel good. Solid-like, and in typical me fashion, I wonder what intentions and destinies lurk beneath the surface of this seemingly platonic relationship. I vacillate daily between relief that the dating nonsense is over with, and wanting him back because I can't help but wonder if this is it. I never before wanted anyone back, because as my friend A (who has known me for like, 16 years) pointed out, I don't really do breakups, per say. I do violent, irreversible exploding aparts filled with tears and insults and slut spirals and people moving to opposite ends of the country. Rare is it that I experience a level-headed lets-still-be-close conversation punctuated with laughter and sincere making of plans to drink beer at local favorite water holes (ones that are realized, to boot!). Maybe I am actually maturing, or maybe there's something else at play. For now, I am content to simply wonder.

2009 was also the year of the boss from hell, who thankfully has mellowed out, but the drama over that and various other weirdnesses at work has left me drained and disengaged. I am thankful for the steady paycheck, but pretty much over it. Of course, I remain as ambivalent as ever about my career path and continue to think that what I need is somebody to just grab me by the shoulders and shake me until a better idea comes to mind. I simply have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, and the older I get, the less certain I become.

Another reoccurring theme of '09 has been hermitude--slowing down, withdrawing from social activities. Given the hecticness of my former life as a social butterfly/dedicated bar fly, this makes sense. Yet this fall's flurry of parties and whatnot revealed the need for a balance that I will have to push myself to attain. The fact is, I am something of a loner at heart, and while I relish times spent with friends, reaching out to other people is not my primary nature. I think I feel a resolution of sorts forming.

Also resolved, is to dedicate more creative and intellectual energies to writing projects, whether they be this silly blog, a different silly blog, short stories, or *gasp* a novel. True to my general nature, I have a hard time organizing my thoughts and experiences into a coherent narrative. And that dearies, is basically it. I'm also working out a lot, taking an art class, and rededicating myself to Pilates, but since this entry is beginning to resemble one of those, "what I ate for lunch" missives, I shall refrain from further exposition on those topics. In short, things are fine and I will try to write more regularly, if only for the practice. Or so should Judith Regan wonder what the lyrics to the song Hey Pretty contain and stumble across this site to offer me a book deal. Because shouldn't something come easy for once? Wait, don't answer that one.

Quite a Statement for One Who Loathes Musical Theatre...

There exists an alternate universe where people break into mashups of Halo/Walking on Sunshine. Where boys named Noah Puckerman bed 40-somethings and play on the football team, yet sweetly serenade  their secret honeys with Sweet Caroline. And that alternate universe is named Glee.

Much has been said about Glee. For this former drama club geek, I think what best sums it up is how it completely captures the sublime miseries and triumphs of being a teenager. Seen through an adult lens it reveals a lesson you wish you knew when you were 16, but probably wouldn't believe until now anyway: that lurking behind even the coolest teenage exterior is a anxious jumble of nerves and insecurities.

I know that this link is several weeks old, ergo old news, but I'm finding it the perfect antidote to this gloomy day. Yes, we do need sunshine and optimism. AND maybe angels too.

H Street Shuttle: Symbolic of 'Hoods Reluctant Acceptance of "Outsiders?"

On Saturday, I was reminded of a particular graffiti tag that often catches my eye in the ladies room of The Raven. It reads something to the effect of, "If you need to take a cab here, you don't belong here." Of course, said graffiti has been since forever ago. Mount Pleasant was significantly less accessible by foot and public transit the first time I noticed that tag, some 6 years ago. I'm not really sure what the pervading attitude towards "non-locals" is in Mnt P. these days, although I suspect that it has calmed down a little. One can't live on the edge of the rapidly developing Columbia Heights and reasonably maintain one's neighborhoodcentricity. 

Today, a similar sentiment still lives for some on the H Street corridor today. Due to my dislike for overly-populated night- life haunts, I have come to really prize many of the establishments on H Street. Some, such as the Argonaut, have a cool, laid-back vibe where you can enjoy a quality beer and not scream to make yourself heard to the person sitting next to you. And in the case of Saturday, the bartender will be cute and he'll dedicate himself to refilling your pint of Allagash White practically every time you turn your head. As my own neighborhood lacks such an establishment, I often put up with the inconvenience of traveling across the city for such an experience. That however, does not seem to sit well with certain long-time residents of the area, one of whom I met on Saturday.

Very drunk, he took it upon himself to systematically annoy my friend and me for a good chunk of the night. It started off innocuously, but didn't get belligerent until after he asked where I lived and I said "Woodley Park." Apparently, that makes me a bougie snob unwelcome at his favorite watering hole.

Well excuuuuuuuuuuuuse me.

I am so tired of this assumption. There are plenty of reasons to live in WP besides the fact that you may enjoy living among the upper-middle class. Living there doesn't mean that you're a certain kind of person any more than living in Columbia Heights means that you're a gang member or a yuppie.

I can understand the anxiety felt by a long-time DC resident at the prospect of sharing a bar with a white 30-something woman who lives in WP. But give me a break. I'm sure there are people who live in the neighborhood who are way more of an indicator of a transitioning and threatening demographic than I am. I, who lives in a friggin' studio apartment and struggles to make ends meet each month. So leave me alone to enjoy my yuppie beer, good sir.

Eventually it was time to go home, a detail that brings me to the actual point of this post. Hurting for funds in a bad way, the sort of bad way that makes me inclined to not want to take *any* cash from the ATM, I am swept with a momentary fit of thrift and decide to wait for the H Street Shuttle. I have taken said shuttle before and have found the wait time only minorly painful. Crossing H Street to find the stop, I see the shuttle pass going in the opposite direction and think that it won't be terribly long before it heads back to safely transport me to Gallery Place.

I think wrong. 45 minutes later,  I am frazzled, exhausted, I need to pee and most importantly, I am no closer to home than I was when I embarked on my journey. Also, at some point, some dude leered and muttered menacingly in my face. I can see the shuttle idling several blocks away like some impossible oasis of safe transit but it will not come any closer. It finally arrives and before long, I am tucked safely into my bed. However, my journey home has taken me approximately an hour and a half, thanks to the glorious inefficiencies of the H Street shuttle.

I now find it ironic that despite the apparent intolerance among many for outsiders on H Street, they make it damn difficult for a person to return to "their side" of the city.

I am hoping I can chalk this experience up to bad night and that the shuttle will return to better form.

Technology FAIL

All around me these days, technology seems to be failing. Last week, our email/internet/phone system at work broke and was virtually unusable for three days. The same strange universal force responsible for that snafu also caused my boss's motherboard to short circuit, which made her micromanaging and robotic inability to communicate with most humans that much more intense. Several days later, my cell phone decided to only work when plugged in, which of course inspired a hi-larious trip to the Verizon store for a replacement wherein I was mocked by a store worker and sent home empty handed. Then, on Monday, my beloved remote control died. Oh, and yesterday, as many of you know,Gmail experienced some sort of hysterical breakdown.

All of this is inspiring me to throw my hands in the air and shout imploringly "why me?"

Times like this I question the efficacy of the so-called digital revolution. Sure, it's very nice that practically everyone in developed nations owns the21st century equivalent of a walkie-talkie and that I can be reached by my friends for a beer at the drop of a hat. But how necessary is that? Of course, I know this opinion to be unpopular. Take Saturday for instance. I have been spending some time with a new gentleman friend and I was explaining the cell phone situation to him.

"Okay, so the phone isn't working so well," I said. "So, uh, if you need to get in touch with me between these hours..well...you can't. So don't change plans at the last minute."

"But what if you're out and somebody wants to get in touch with you?"

"They won't. They'll just have to do it the way everyone did it 10 years ago. You know, in advance."

Novel, I know.

Really, the cell phone thing doesn't bother me that much.

But the remote? Yeah, that's another story. The writing had been scrawled on the wall many days in advance of its actual passing, I just thought the batteries might need replacing. I spent a good amount of time on Monday after tennis trying to revive it's cold, lifeless plastic body. A battery switch did not reap the results I had been seeking. Then I thought that perhaps the problem was due to poor channel surfing form so I spent some time pointing the remote at the TV with greater purpose and authority. Nada. I finally calledR CN and their solution to the problem was to have me press a bunch of buttons on the remote at once. Nothing. They finally conceded that it was indeed broken and that I should bring it in to the closest RCN store for a free replacement.

Awesome. 

But yesterday, instead of performing said errand at lunch as I intended, I instead got sucked into joining my friends at work outside for a fun, social group lunch--an activity loads more enjoyable than errand-running.

This meant that later that night as I passed a few hours with friends over happy hour beers, my purse contained, in addition to the usual cell phone, wallet, random scraps of paper, tubes oflip gloss, keys and granola bar, a cell phone charger and a remote control.

Awesome.  Because nothing says "sane" like a purse full of dead electronic gadgets.

And of course, I was subjected to a second night of no remote control, which seriously cramped my DVR watching. Can somebody please explain why DVRs have to be made so that not having a functioning remote turns TV-watching into the most arduous activity outside of scrubbing a kitchen floor with a toothbrush?

So today, invigorated by the positively crisp 80 degree weather, I made my way down to Metro Center to procure a new remote. Have you ever been to theRCN store on F Street? If so, you know that security there must be a pressing concern, as evidenced by the fact that their customer service reps sit inside large plexiglass boxes. It is seriously hardcore. Like, liquor store in Petworth hardcore. Do they fear violent exchanges with their customer base so much that they must resort to such drastic measures? Is there service *that* bad? Lucky for me, the remote control exchange took less than 5 minutes, most of which was spent enduring a minor level of emotional abuse from the lady in the plexiglass box after I asked for my batteries back and she scolded me for not thinking of that sooner. Good point. "Well," I countered, "I expected you to maybe try fixing the thing before you threw it into the 'broken remote control box'." While taking a snotty tone with abadass customer service lady with a very short temper trapped inside a plexiglass box is never advisable, she did seem to see my point and dropped the argument. Then she handed me my new remote and thus, my purse became home to an actual functioning piece of technology. Or so I hope.

So the problem with the digital revolution is that we become so reliant on it that when its trappings fail us, it's much harder for us to function, simply because we have to spend that time adjusting to the absence of that technology. It's like it creates a little glitch in  the circuits of our own minds, which disrupts communication flows and makes everything pause for a second while we readjust course and pick up a book instead of watching Mad Men. Which is fine, but it's not insignificant.

There are times when I long for a more analog way of being. Like when I learned about the Impossible Project, I squeed with happiness. And when my friend M quipped that we need an analog counterpart to the internet. While I know that he wasn't serious, it got me wondering what that would look like. As I see it, it would sort of be a giant bulletin board where people would post things and those things might  have strings linking to other things. Impossible yes, but fun and fanciful to imagine.

We may live in a digital world, but a heart, I am an analog girl.

You Ask, I Answer

Like anyone narcissistic enough to maintain a blog, I am as enthralled with my site meter (oooh, passe! a site meter post) as I am with comments. After I pour my soul out to you dear readers, it's only fair that I should be interested in knowing how people arrive at this humble site. This is of course, where the referrals page comes into play. When combined with the power and knowledge of Google, it can be a thing of beauty.

Google may, by the way, be my favorite invention of the last 15 or so years. As somebody obsessed with magic 8 balls as a child, there is something so awesome about being able to type a question into your computer and (sort of) receive an answer. It's like having one's very own oracle. I could actually spend hours typing questions into Google, simply for the sake of seeing what it comes up with. If only this were a profession. I'd be all over it in a heartbeat.

So, this morning I'm perusing my referrals and I see that somebody landed on HP after typing "how do i know when im coked up" into Google (speaking of 8 balls--ba dum, ching! yes, that's right). Well, my dear friend from Lubbock, Texas, you have asked the right blogger.

In order to determine if you are coked up, you should ask yourself the following questions.

1.) Has any cocaine entered your body recently? While the most common method of introducing cocaine into your bloodstream is by snorting it, you can also smoke it ,or rub it a little on a bodily orifice. EW. That sounded appalling, didn't it? Oh well, I don't make these things up, I just report them. Nor do I judge. Seriously, you want to rub some coke on an orifce? Go right ahead.

2.) Are you talking quickly, enthusiastically, and with great authority about something that nobody else cares about?

3.) Did you type your question so quickly and with such haste that you misspelled "know"?

If you answered yes to question 1 and any of the others, you are indeed coked up.

You are welcome.

In the comments section tell me if *you're* coked up. If not, what are you 'upped on? 

The Eternal Fly-In-My-Soup Dilemma

The stupid cafe in the basement of my building just screwed up my lunch order. Granted, I sort of asked for it when I tried to modify an existing menu item, but still. I am a customer and isn't the goal of the basement cafe industry to service customers? It has already been a really shitty week. My job is sucking more than usual, my boss is incapable of disguising her hatred for me, I am tired of being single, and yesterday (to cap off all this glory) I came home to find a letter informing me that my rent is increasing by 74 dollars a month. I promptly burst into tears and did what any whiny, miserable person does when confronted by too many life challenges: I called my mommy.

With life sucking so hard, all I wanted today was a little comfort in the form of a very specific sandwich. The fact that I did not receive saidsandwich when I asked for it just makes the inadequacies of the one I did receive that much worse. Of course, this situation raises a very obvious question: why didn't I say anything?

Because I can count with one finger the number of times in my life that I have rejected a food order. Sending food back to the kitchen centers around one crucial thing which I fear above many others: confrontation. I am very, very bad at confrontation.  I would instead prefer to pretend to be okay with things while I stew and complain about it to anyone else who will listen. I'm not sure why this is, other than the fact that because I hate being confronted with unpleasant conversations, I can only assume that other people do too, so why subject anyone to it?

OF course, the complaining is a distinctly un-charming quality that I would very much like to address but I have no idea how. I am a world champion kvetcher. The quality that I most admire in others that I lack is the ability to let shit roll off their backs. I mean, how on earth does one do that? How can people and things not bother you?

But back to the sandwich. Could it be that if I started to stand up for myself in a firm, yet diplomatic manner, even if it means engaging in a little confrontational behavior that I might be happier in general? I'm starting to think that may be just the thing.

In the comments section tell me what you do when life puts a fly in *your* soup.

Misadventures of a Non-Morning Person

It is a well-known fact among my friends and loved ones, and even this blog, that I do not care for mornings. Every single stereotype about the bitchiness of morning people applies to me, times about 100 million. I greet each day with typical Quixotian rebelliousness, head buried beneath pillow, cursing time and the construct of the 9-5 work day. Unless you are armed with a french press of strong black coffee it is best to not attempt to interact with me until I have been awake for at least an hour.

So for the reasons stated above, I always consider my first interaction of the day with another human a curious thing. It does after all, have the potential to play out very poorly, very well, or most often--quite comically.

This morning's first human interaction of the day assumed the form of the latter. I was a little late for work, so I was scurrying down the sidewalk to the metro quite quickly, while also attempting to unravel my Ipod earbuds so I could properly pump myself up for work by listening to some tunes. Recently, I have been gravitating back to several tracks on the mix that Mr. Alaska gave me, not out of any form of nostalgia for flings-of-yesteryear, but simply because I find myself addicted to the bluesy, alt-countryish sound of two in particular*. I don't know, for some reason, a song about a western serial killer just prepares me for a day of interacting with political organizers. If my Ipod is a Rorschach of the inner workings of my brain, I do not want to know what any of that means.

So. There I am, scooting down Connecticut Ave, a block from the metro, wrestling with my iPod cord when I realize two facts at once. 1.) There is a woman trying to walk past me. 2.) I am doing that maddeningly annoying thing where I can't seem to stick to one side of the sidewalk, and am not in fact walking down the sidewalk, so much as I am ricocheting along like a drunken intern in Adams Morgan on a Friday night. I feel like an asshole. Idiot sidewalk-hoggers are after all, my # 1 pet peeve and here I was reflecting my own biggest irritant.

Let me remind you now that it's 8:40 in the morning and I have yet to talk to another human today. I think I may have muttered something at my clock radio two hours earlier when it first went off (I had planned on going to the gym--ha, ha), but I don't think that the people in the NPR studios actually heard me. So what do I do? I holler over my should to the person trying to pass me. And I say:

"Sorry! I know I'm being really annoying! Here, why don't you pass me."

And God bless her, she laughed.

All in all, not such a terrible first of the day.

*Baltimore Blues No. 1: Deer Tick
Black River Killer: Blitzen Trapper

File Under: Situations, Hypothetical

Earlier today, I learned that the woman who hired me at my current position and then left for a job at a different organization, is leaving that position.

It has been clear to me for months that the woman who was hired to replace her here, is not happy here and is seeking opportunities elsewhere. This is fine with us, as to say that we're not satisfied with her management performance would be the understatement of several lifetimes. In fact, as I noted to a friend a month or so ago, the situation with her and me is rapidly devolving into a game of chicken to determine who will resign first. I am nothing if not stubborn, and since I was here first, I am determined to stay.

However, part of me thinks it would be amusing if I followed my old boss into her (about to be old) job.

But...given the fact that current boss is looking for a new job, the likelihood of us competing against one another for this position is high. Extremely high. There are after all, only so many positions available in D.C. in our field. Therefore, it would be very amusing if we passed one another in the revolving door, both in our finest interview threads, resumes clutched to our chests.

File Under: Karma, Department of

Earlier today, I observed a visitor to our office helping himself to the container of hummus I have in the fridge. Apparently, the fact that I had my initials scrawled all over it was not enough to deter him from partaking. I was about to feel rather miffed, until I realized exactly how old that container of hummus is. Now I suppose, nature will teach him a lesson on its own. It's nice how these things often work themselves out.

The Hughsian Anti-Hero

Today, Salon.com's Broadsheet is debating a very important issue in response to the untimely demise of Mr. John Hughes, teen movie auteur extraordinaire. And while the question of favorite John Hughes heroines is a good one, and indeed, there are many to choose from (how do you decide between Iona and Watts?), I am here today to pose the opposite question: Who is your favorite *male* John H. character?

Mine is hands down, Judd Nelson's brilliant portrayal of the "burnout" John Bender, in detention of course, for pulling a false fire alarm, in The Breakfast Club. To my emerging smart-ass mind, no line in movie history was as wonderful or witty as "screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place." In fact, I still use it in conversation and normally receive quizzical looks. It is very possible in fact, that my soul mate (if such a thing exists) will be the man who knows what the hell I am talking about when I reference that line.

Whether challenging the authority of megalomaniac Principal, Richard "Dick" Vernon, or wooing Molly Ringwald's Claire Standish with his antagonisms, John Bender planted the seed of a life-long infatuation with bad boys and ner-do-wells. And while I have since wised-up to the pitfalls of falling for the boy who simply can't deal with the rules laid out before him, I will always carry a small torch for the wounded rebel archtype, thanks to Mr. Bender.

In the comments section, tell me what a cliche I am for liking this insufferable douchebag. Or...tell me who your favorite John H. character is--male or female.