hey pretty

Fellas, Take Note

It was shaping up to be another one of those mornings. I had just finished slamming my fingers in the front door of my house and had turned the corner onto Connecticut Avenue to walk to the metro, clutching a baggie of ice to my throbbing paw. In front of me walked a person of ambiguous gender--short and stocky with short curly hair, bagging clothing and Tevas-- a spot on impersonation of Julia Sweeney's "Pat" albeit probably not a deliberate one.

Finally, I noticed a familiar-looking vehicle idling at the curb ahead of me. The same model and make as a certain somebody's. Could it be? I slowed down and peered into the window. It was! D was coming back from dropping his daughter off at a play date nearby and was driving back home just in time to see me walking to the metro, pull over and offer me a ride.

Women in relationships often speak of the grand gestures displayed by partners willing to please. While fancy dinners, love letters and shiny jewelry are all well and good, sometimes it's those little things that make the right kind of impact. Rescuing your lady friend from uncertain Monday morning Metro hell is one those gestures. Take notes, fellas.

Certain People Should Check With Me Before Dating Other Certain People

Thanks to the wonders of harmless on-line stalking research I discovered yesterday that a young man I know has dated two female acquaintances of mine. Even better is that around this very same time last year I had dinner with both of these women at a crab shack in Arlington where one recounted the bitter details of a very bad date with him, and none of us were even slightly hip to the fact that the other woman at the table had also gone out with him.

I hold this young man in high regard. He also happens to have gone to college with a former roommate of mine, who other than the fact that he dropped off the face of the planet after moving in with his girlfriend, is also pretty cool. But that's not how I know him. I know him through my friend A, who I went to college with but who I didn't actually befriend until last year.

Confusing isn't it?

As far as I can tell, there are a couple of lessons to be derived from all this.

The first is the obvious, cliched sentiment that DC is a small town.

The second is that my friends are not terribly compatible with this young man and that if he wishes to find romantic happiness in the future he should check with me to see if I am friends with a potential mate. I mean, I clearly play a very central and here-to-fore invisible role in this man's love life. This also ties into my semi-secret dream of being a match-maker, which is fueled both by my inherent nosiness and love of a good story-book ending.

So. The lesson here is that my friends are not acceptable mates for this young man and that the future of his love life rests on finding women who I am not acquainted with.

Monday Morning Face What You Dislike Edition

It should be no revelation to anyone who reads this blog that I hate Mondays and mornings. I'm like Garfield the cat that way. Meow. Therefore, Monday mornings have always been a unique form of torture for me. And today has been no exception.

My first human interaction of the day came in the form of an email from a roommate proclaiming, among other things that people should stop using her tin foil.

Tin foil. An email about tin foil at 7:00 a.m. Seriously. This is one of many reasons why I am about to move out of my house. Because I refuse to live in an environment where people feel the need to email about tin foil. No, I did not take her tin foil. Perhaps another of our roommates has joined some sort of extra terrestrial communion association and they needed it for the hats they want to make for the upcoming phone-an-alien-day.

Or maybe somebody else took it in return for the service of cleaning up after everyone else. Oh wait, that's impossible because all cleaning at our house seems to be at a standstill.

Spill something of the counter? Why clean it up when you can admire the artful manner in which said liquid has sloshed upon this once (as in a very long time ago) pristine surface. Our kitchen is starting to resemble a Jackson Pollack canvas.

What could make a Monday morning even more enjoyable after that than a trip to the gym? Really, I can't fathom what possessed me. Perhaps that the gym is about 300 feet from my house and rarely going makes me feel totally lame. That, and the fact that my regular 90 minute tennis lesson was canceled yesterday and I felt a need to run on a treadmill to make up for it. Rather, it was penance for the fact that I used the time normally taken up by tennis to watch Bring It On. Side note: Kirstin Dunst has killer abs in that movie. Also: I cried like a total lame-o at the end. Lest anyone think I am a curmudgeon all the time, let it be known that the sight of a fictional inner-city cheer leading team overcoming adversity to win an also fictional cheer leading contest reduces to me a pile of tears. Yes, judge away.

To be honest, the gym wasn't that bad. Probably because I got bored after 20 minutes. But there's my little exercise philosophy for you: No need to force anything. If you find yourself dreading the last 10 minutes of your workout, say F-that and do something else. Hating your workout isn't going to get you to go more often. It's the reason why people get gym memberships and never go: dread. Plus, I have a 90 minute intensive Iyengar yoga class tonight so I felt like I had a pass.

Then it was time for work.

My office is really laid back about stuff like attendance and punctuality. Which I normally really appreciate, but this morning it meant not being able to efficiently respond to a producer from a MAJOR MEDIA outlet who wanted somebody from my org to be interviewed. In 30 minutes. Scramble time. Oh wait, nobody is in  the office right now because it's Monday at 9:30. Nor are they responding to voice mails, apparently. Super. In the end our ED came through and after sweet talking the producer I even finagled a better interview time slot. Score 1 for the Communications person.

And then it was time to call reporters to pitch a press conference. Let me begin this section by telling you that calling reporters is my least favorite activity on the planet. It's the reason why I'm not a better PR person, to be honest. Why's that you ask? Because reporters are mean. Sorry to all reporters who are reading this, but from what I have seen in the last 8 years in my field, it's true. Or at least the ones I have to deal with. The first few calls occurred without incident. Most people denied ever having received our media advisory (note to reporters: it's called email. look into it) and wanted me to resend. Fine, fine, Sure. Yes, ABC news, I will even FAX it to you as requested (theory of the day: ABC news does not want my media advisory and chooses the  most antiquated communication system currently in use to receive it. Why not request it via Pony Express or Morse code too?) And then it happened. Mid-call to a major U.S wire service the person on the other end of the phone HUNG UP ON  ME.

Huh?

Not interested in my press conference, Mr. Big Time journo? Fine with me, just say so and I'll hang up. Believe me, I can think of a hundred other things I'd rather be doing now than being on the phone.

So I write this it's 11:25 a.m. Morning will be over in 35 minutes. After which, I have high hopes for the rest of the day.

In the comments section tell me why journalists are so rude. Or what you would do with a roll of purloined tin foil.

Good Produce For All, But Only If You Got Dough

I am having a love-hate relationship with the Dupont Circle Farmer's Market.

Not long ago, I decided to experiment with the whole "localvore" thing and buy the majority of my food there. The idea appealed to me greatly due to the fact that I would be supporting the good efforts of local farmers and not eating food that was shipped great distances. I also figured that quality would improve over the not-so-amazing offerings of the Van Ness Giant.

Yet I have encountered several obstacles.

1.) Getting to the farmers market before all the good food is gone requires discipline and initiative, two qualities I often lack on a Sunday morning. In other words, yes: I am lazy.

2.) I friggin' hate crowds. Not only do I hate crowds, I hate crowds that move, yet without any logical traffic pattern. Even more, I hate those people in crowds who block traffic, completely oblivious to the fact that stepping out in front of a person who is walking and JUST STANDING THERE may constitute an annoyance.

3.) I really hate the fact that the majority of the patrons at the Dupont Farmers market are white and affluent-looking. Perhaps this is symptomatic of the neighborhood and I should simply chill. But still...are there successful farmers markets in less bougie hoods with high quality produce? If so, are they patroned by white gentrifiers or do they appear to be more equal-opportunity? Call it white liberal self-loathing, but red flags always shoot up in my mind whenever I encounter a situation or a subculture patroned mainly by the melaninly-challenged. Is there something about it that marginalizes minorities, or are minorities not interested in said situation/subculture? Do the other whities at the market even care about this or are they too  busy blocking traffic with their SUV strollers to give a shit?

4.) Cost, cost, cost. Last Sunday I paid 5 dollars for three tomatoes. Perhaps this is a reflection of the rising costs of food everywhere, but it struck me as deeply unreasonable. It also struck me as deeply unfair and extremely wrong that participating in the localvore movement has to take place at such a cost. Shouldn't everyone have access to affordable, high-quality local produce?

The rising price of food is an undeniable justice issue. Why should poor people be forced to eat crappy food while others among us can dine on pricey heirloom tomato salads? Doesn't crappy food and by extension, crappy nutrition, add to the considerable woes of economic disadvantage? Me thinks they do.

Until I can come up with a reasonable solution to this issue, I have a suggestion or two for my fellow farmer's market patrons.

1.) Fresh local produce is a luxury. You are not entitled to it and you should remember how lucky you are in accessing it and being able to afford it.

2.) Please do not block traffic. If you see a small wavy-haired woman with huge tortishell shades scowling at you, that would be me. And you're probably in my way.

Attack of the Hipster Fashion Police

For further evidence of the fact that it's impossible to escape oppressive fashion policing ANYWHERE in this city, make your way over to BYT where a debate is currently raging over...rompers.

Yes, those little one piece top and shorts garments your mom may have made you wear if you were a toddler in the 1970s.

Now let's get one thing straight. I neither despise nor fully embrace rompers on grownups. Like many trends, they leave me with a feeling of two parts ambivalence and one part I-don't-give-a-fuck. They are probably best on young, lithe, slender bodies, but lets face it--most clothes are. BYT laments the apparent unpopularity of the romper in DC, which shouldn't be a surprise to anyone with even half of a DC-oriented fashion compass. Here in our fair Nation's capital, most people tend to be several seasons behind on the latest trends. While a bit dull visually perhaps, I find it a tad comforting to note that the individuals responsible for running our country have better things to think about than what tacky American Apparel mini-dress would look best with their new vinyl leggings. Sure, I would kill to see the end of those kimono dresses that everyone and their bosses have been rocking since Season 2 of Project Runway (am I wrong to credit Kara Janx with this particular trend?) but I also know how comfy they are in 100 degree weather so I will try to refrain from quibbling.

What really gets me about the article isn't the rompers per say. It's the irritating debate that they have inspired. Why do people have to get so self-righteous when it comes to other peoples' sartorial selections? Why can't people just wear what they want to wear and respect the rights of others to do the same.

In other words: Why can't people just mind their own damn business and find something more important to worry about than what other people are wearing? Like rompers? Cool, wear one every day for all I care. Not so hot on 'em? Then wear your seersucker or your taffeta or your little black dresses for all I care. Just mind your own business and find something of actual importance to worry about.

I Never Said I Wanted It All

Remember how, in the 80's the archetype of the super-female who managed to be a successful wife, mother and career woman captured the public's collective imagination and all of a sudden women everywhere were power-walking to work in ugly white Reebocks over nude colored nylons with dippy-looking suits and those blouses with the tacked-on bows? I cannot for the life of my imagine why anyone would want to be one of those women. I can barely manage to juggle a million priorities for work, plan a move and maintain a satisfying social life with a smile on my face.

Case in point: This morning my clock radio ticked on at the previously designated time of 7:00 a.m to CNN radio (so annoying it gets me out of bed) and I found myself wondering what day it was. I really had no clue, but Friday seemed as good a guess as any. Until of course, I realized it was Monday, which is pretty much the opposite of Friday in terms of morale-boosting opportunities, and I promptly rolled over and went back to sleep. It's pretty difficult to salvage your day after realizing that you have four more mornings of early wake-up calls ahead of you.

And really, it hasn't gotten much better than that. I am not prepared for my week and wish I could be hiding under my covers (really nice covers thanks to my new habit of purchasing antique bed linens) instead. My specific problem this week is a matter of underacheiving. All around me people are expecting me to accomplish things when really I can't be bothered today. And it makes me wonder what's so bad about a little slacking and the fact that it's perfectly okay to not want to be great at all things that one does or is expected to do.

While I have experienced many Mondays made miserable by excessive weekend partying, today is not one of those Mondays. Heck, I even played tennis yesterday afternoon in the million degree heat, a most definite sign of not being too hungover to function.

I really just need another day.

I can't imagine how those super-women who manage to balance career, marriage, family and friends all do it, but one thing is certain to me right now: I have no desire to be one of those women. So society, you can have your tacky post-feminist stereotypes back. Give them to another women because I don't want them. For now at least, I am happy being a slacker.

Field Guide to DC Apartment Hunting, Vol 1 million

Well, my dear (and dwindling) readers, I am happy to report that I am ending my seemingly never-ending quest to find a new place to live in Washington, DC.

I found a place. Not only did I find one, but it occurred through most serendipitous circumstances that I will now share with you all as part of my efforts to educate my peers about the ins-and-outs of apartment-hunting in our fair city.

Several days ago I found a message on a list-serve I belong to from a woman announcing that she is vacating her apartment and needs somebody to take over her lease. She listed various essential pieces of information such as location, rent and date of availability. All seemed fine, although to be honest, I barely processed any of it, because I have been in such an apartment-hunting related stupor that I could barely distinguish good from bad at that point. But out of reflex or force of habit or whatever, I responded and set up a time to go see the place.

We scheduled the appointment for that night, which was super convenient for me because the apartment happens to be located just around the corner from my current house. All I had to do was pop over and see it. Which I did, to find it totally delightful for a studio. So delightful that I was pretty sure I had to have it, but not quite willing to force myself to come to a decision. I hate decisions and I like to take my time making them.

Luckily for me, this woman was totally gracious and accommodating and agreed to  let me sleep on it and get back to her in the morning. It was mine if I wanted it (and passed a credit check) but there was no need to decide that moment.

Twelve hours and one very long pep talk with my mom later, I was emailing her to express my interest. Applications were filled out, employment verified, credit checked. Mid-afternoon today the building's management told me I could have it, which after thinking about it, talking about it, and even drawing multiple floor plans about it all week, I was positive I wanted it.

Having navigated the dizzying landscape of finding a new place to live in D.C my best advice for others in similar situations is as follows:

-Take your time.

-Use Craig's List as a mechanism to research general housing trends. By this I mean, go to some open houses you find on CL to see what apartments will cost in various neighborhoods. But do not expect to find the apartment you will end up living in. While it's possible that you will, don't bet on it and certainly don't use CL as your only hope.

-ID some apartment buildings you may want to live in and call around about availabilities. While vacancy rules vary from place-to-place, I have found that most buildings require notice around the first of the month. Calling then is a good idea if you want to learn about vacancies before the rest of the world does.

-Be persistent. Be patient.

Ultimately, a lot of success in this boils down to being in the right place at the right time, and having excellent connections. The list-serve I found this apartment through is run by a networking organization I've belonged to for several years that exists for the very purpose of helping progressive young women find jobs, housing, professional development opportunities and more. While it's done little for me up until this point, it has now completely justified its membership dues. It also helped that the woman currently living there is a total sweetheart, didn't subject anyone to an open house, and stayed true to her word when she told me she'd hold the place for me overnight. In apartment hunting and in life it seems, karma is king.

So... I tried to branch out and move to a new area, but it seems that I am destined to live in Woodley Park. While I might prefer a neighborhood with hipper bars, there's a lot to be said for feeling safe and sticking to familiar surroundings.

More later on all this, I am sure.

Enjoy your weekends.

xoxo

Conjugating "To Crush" In French and Life

As I mentioned yesterday, I have recently reunited with my 8th grade crush via the wonders of harmless  Internet stalking. It's not as if the discovery of him on Facebook was much of a revelation, we have plenty of mutual friends and I generally see him once every couple of years through various meetings of the friends-from-high-school group. But seeing his profile there reminded me for the first time in ages what a very big deal he was to my silly 13 year old self in that he was not only my 8th grade crush, but my very first teenage crush as well, one that would last for an embarrassingly long time even as he rotated through a cast of actual girlfriends including a close friend of mine (which stung and represented the ultimate high school injustice). Even as I met and liked other boys, my crush on this one was a reliable constant in the otherwise bewildering flurry of shifting teenage hormones and allegiances.

He was new to town, although I forget why. His father taught at one of the bazillion colleges in our area, so maybe they had moved to the area as a result of a new teaching position. I only had one class with him: French II. Thanks to the wonders of alphabetical seating charts we sat next to one another. At first I found him unremarkable. I had yet to develop my penchant for brooding, quiet, mysterious dark-haired men, so this strange new kid who didn't say much didn't impress nearly as much as the cute blond kid in class who was brash and outgoing and rumored to be a tennis phenom.

I was 12 years old, about to turn 13. In classic ugly duckling turns swan tradition, I had dropped 10 pounds, had my braces removed and had grown my hair out over the summer. While I wasn't yet a complete Betty, boys were starting to take notice, yet I was still too shy to really do anything about that. When it came to boys, I vacillated between wanting to be noticed and liked, and terrified of what that might result in. I had yet to be kissed and to my knowledge, yet to be considered fully crush-worthy by anyone. While I was jealous of the girls in my class who made out with their boyfriends at their lockers and secretly wanted to one of them, asexuality offered a safe cover from actually having to decipher the perplexing lingua franca of the average 13 year old boy and the inherent risks of throwing myself at its mercy.

It was for this reason that I largely ignored the newcomer in French class for the first several weeks of school. Until two events of note occurred. 1.) I realized that my French teacher was an idiot and totally unworthy of my attention; 2.) The newcomer next  to me started talking to me.

I wish I could remember what those early conversations evolved around. I think it was mostly topics such as who was lamer and why hadn't he returned the pen I lent him last week--typical fodder for French class banter. But the thing was, he was flirting with me, and I had never been flirted with. Or if I had, I had never really enjoyed it. Add to that the fact that he delivered all of his barbs in perfect deadpan, and I was hooked. My first official crush was born.

Because he was new to the area, he didn't have that many friends at school. Which to my grownup self would suggest that I should have befriended him immediately. But I didn't due to my shyness. Instead, I regarded him as something of a secret. To me, he was this awesomely funny, smart, sarcastic, adorable new boy and I was the brilliant girl who had discovered him first. I imagine its the same feeling that Anna Wintour has when she discoverers a hot new fashion talent.

Unfortunately, this didn't last long. Eventually, the most popular girl on our class snatched him up and made him her boyfriend. This girl lived in a semi-posh part of town, always had the best clothes and had tons of minions always following her around dying to do her bidding. I had never much liked her, and after she started dating my secret boy discovery, I loathed her with a passion.

The crush continued as a near constant presence through high school graduation, despite my better judgment. He was always around in some way, whether in classes or theatre company (we were both techies) or through friends. By high school the secret of his fabulousness was out and he was rarely ever without a  girlfriend. He even dated a friend of mine for a while, which was completely painful to watch, even though by then it was obvious that any interest he ever had in me was strictly confined to 8th grade French class.  And once he started getting some, he became unbearably cocky. Still, the crush lived on, morphing from innocent-coming-of-age-experience to painful-phase-you-read-about-in-a-Judy-Blume-book.

I still seem him every once in a while through reunions of various high school friends. He continues to be funny, smart and cute--the classic trifecta that always gets me into trouble. Yet still, I've had better.

While my adult self has cultivated and dropped countless flirtations, suitors and a smattering of actual boyfriends, there's something nice about keeping tabs on the boy who introduced my stomach to the concept of butterflies. It's kind of nice to know that there are men out there who are interested in being affiliated with you in some way, even if they did know you when you wore cable-knit sweaters from the Limited, pegged jeans, and feathered bangs.

Why 20-Somethings Do Not Run the World

Yesterday Gawker posted an article poking fun of "grown-up" journalists who attempt to dispense professional advice to 20-somethings. Because people in their 20's know everything and totally don't need any professional development advice. I should know, I was one just a couple of years ago. The article hit a nerve with me, mostly because yesterday I was put in the position of basically having to master-mind and execute a whole last-minute media outreach strategy because all the 20-somethings on our team decided to take the day off. When did Tuesday become such a popular day to ditch work, is what I would like to know.

I am going to be uncharacteristically nice here and give them the benefit of the doubt that they surely all had extremely important plans that they could not in anyway cancel or put off. This must be the case because on Monday when we got wind of some trouble brewing regarding our issue area, not one of them volunteered any of their time to help with the planning. At a meeting to discuss the "crisis" all tasks such as developing the message, writing the press release, building the media list, posting stuff online and calling reporters ended up in my lap. There was no promise of teamwork that had carried us through our other big projects.

Here's where I should pause and explain something. I really do love my job. I've been here for two months and it's employment bliss.

I love that I make decisions and people follow them without debating them for hours at a time
I love that my opinion is respected
I love that I get to go to San Francisco in August for a really freaking awesome work event that I might just share with you at another time
I love my position of semi-in-chargness and how the more harried my boss gets, the more in-chargness I adopt
I love that I don't work in the suburbs
I love that whenever I write or do anything, at least 5 people tell me what I great job I did
I love that I have an office with a window, a really comfy chair and one of those fancy new Apple computers that is basically a big screen with some perhiperal parts plugged into it
I love that the majority of people here aren't total retards.

But what I didn't love, not at all, was how people who were on vacation yesterday, who thus missed integral aspects of the planning process for this project, took the opportunity to complain about how things were managed. I also don't love that on Monday when discussion regarding said project commenced, not one of them volunteered that they'd be out the next day, thus leading me to spend half the morning scratching my head and asking "where are these people?" until a very helpful intern (more on this is a sec) informed me they were on vacation and hadn't widely announced it. Which, as a former lazy 20-something I don't fault them for at all. It is best after all, to completely fly under the radar if you are trying to dodge responsibility on an issue. It's the workplace equivalent of Don't Ask-Don't Tell.

I hate to moralize (that's not true, I sort of love it), but if I found out that my services would be needed on a day I had planned to take off, I would immediately change plans and show up promptly for work the next morning. Sure, I'd probably be a bit grouchy about it, but I'd do it. At the very least, I would not sit in a meeting pretending to be completely on-board with everything discussed, when in fact, I had no intention of actually taking part in any of it. And then, I would not complain to the person stuck doing all the work that they did it in a matter not to my liking, especially if that person holds a more senior position.

Now about those interns I normally expect interns to be surly, unmotivated individuals with an over-inflated sense of self-worth. They are after all, in college, and what else do you learn in college other than the fact that you are right and the rest of the world is wrong? But we seem to have obtained our interns from the magical, helpful intern store. They are amazing. Yesterday, when getting help from actual regular staffers was a completely lost cause, they all jumped to my aid, enthusiastic to actually make cold calls to reporters to pitch a news item. For those of you unfamilar with the world of Communications and PR work, cold calling reporters is the absolute least fun thing you could ever be asked to do. I've been at this for 8 years and I still do not enjoy it. But they did it. Not even because I asked them to, but because they wanted to, or at least wanted to appear helpful.

My theory here is that the cynicism and malaise of adult life that threatens to overwhelm many other 20-somethings into states of complete submission where they are only capable of quoting Lol-cats and making happy hour plans has yet to set in. Probably because they're all still in that happy warm bubble known as college. They have yet to graduate and have everything they thought they ever knew come crashing down on them.

Of course, all of this is a very circular and long-winded way for me to articulate my own career advice to 20-somethings of the world.

1.) Yeah, it totally sucks that you spend your professional life being bossed around by people older and lamer than you. I feel your pain. However, this is the case because those people have more experience than you and are thus more capable of making good decisions and delegating work effectively. Suck it up, pretend you love it and in no time at all you'll be elbowing us out of our offices with the comfy chairs and nice views.

2.) Shut the frack up.

3.) Actually, that's it.

And in other news, I am now Facebook friends with my 8th grade crush. This makes me happy.

Field Guide to DC Apartment Hunting, Vol 2

This past weekend I decided to stop talking about moving and actually get off my ass and look for a place to move into. Truth is, I rather like having this whole moving project as a hobby/day dream. So much so that making the dream a reality is a little scary. What if I choose wrong? What if I make a ton of compromises on the sort of space I am willing to live in, only to see something way better a month after I get settled? What if I hate my new neighborhood? With so many potentially negative repercussions, the impetus to dream about moving is understandably stronger than the one to actually do it.

Of course, the thing about dragging one's feet is that once you realize you're doing it, you feel practically shamed into putting a stop to it. And of course, there's the fact that I am really hating the ice cream and pie crust stealing cliquishness of my roommates. It seems like every weekend I step into a planned social activity that I wasn't invited to participate in, which really isn't a fun experience. There is also the fact that I have too many books for my bookcases, and not enough room to buy more bookcases. I clearly need more space. And the fact that there's no central air in our whole house and my room is on the third floor so when it's really hot outside my room is 100 degrees when I come home at night. This by the way, is a nice contrast to winters when it's 30 degrees outside the house and inside my room.

Anyway.

My plan for the day was to play "urban pioneer" and check out various neighborhoods that might be desirable ones to move to.

Here's a brief run-down.

11:30--Leave house to hit open house for a 1 bedroom apartment in the Convention Center neighborhood. Rent for said unit is 900-something, I can't remember exactly. Under 1,000 for sure. I am expecting the worst but feel compelled to go anyway.

11:35--Note that shoes feel like they're starting to rub against my feet in a bad way. Debate returning home to change, instead opt to buy Band-Aids at the CVS. This will prove to be a pivotal moment. One where a very bad choice was made.

12:15--Arrive in Convention Center area after sitting on metro for god knows how long due to track work. Realize it's going to be a long day.

12:16--Walk down 9th street and note presence of brew pub. Recall recent conversation with mom (armchair urban studies expert) who told me that brew pubs are a solid indicator or urban revitalization.

12:17--Walk a block past brew pub and note presence of many boarded up buildings and one gas station.

12:20--Arrive at property. See no signs of an open house or of an available apartment. Chat with young woman on sidewalk who informs me that I missed the open house by 15 minutes.

Okay, now this really pissed me off. The person in charge of renting the place had told me that she'd start to show it at 11:30. Naive me takes this to mean that she had plans to stick around for a while. Occasions like this are why I normally make a point in life to be on time for everything.  They also point to evidence of why I can't get it 100% together as a person since the only time I ever seem to be late for anything is the only time that punctuality actually seems to matter.

12:21--Resolve to explore neighborhood.

12:22--Revise decision to explore neighborhood. Several blisters have formed on my feet and the 10 Band-Aids I have applied keep on rubbing off. Why can't the pharmaceutical industry invent a Band-Aid that doesn't rub off your feet when you're breaking in shoes? How hard is that?

12:23--Venture on to Petworth.

I should note that from here I stopped paying attention to the time. Suffice to say that it took way longer than it should to metro up to Petworth.

I explored the neighborhood for a few blocks, noted some apartment for rent signs, called to inquire and was greeted by answering machines at all. Decided to explore some more, despite fact that stroll through Petworth and morphed into hobble through Petworth on account of retched blisters caused by really uncomfortable shoes.

What I saw in Petworth: The cash register area at the store where I stopped to buy a Diet Pepsi was surrounded by plexiglass. Never a good sign.

Then a man followed me on his bike, muttering at me under his breath for a block or two. I Recalled that this has happened before and is part of the reason why I never visit that area. I also wondered if all those people who talk up the safety of Petworth have never been semi-stalked in that area or if they have and simply consider the experience to be a friendly neighborly sort of one. Suffice to say, it did not warm me to the neighborhood and I then remembered why people are often willing to pay big bucks to live in other non-transitional areas of the city. It only sort of reminded me of that scene in Clueless where Cher is stuck in Sun Valley after being abandoned by her ride home and she has to call Paul Rudd to get a lift. Sadly, I couldn't call Paul Rudd, as his number isn't in my phone so instead had to book it over the metro. Stay classy, Petworth.

After that, I decided it was time to truly get in touch with my inner-bougie princess so I hightailed it to Chevy Chase and spent way too much money at Bloomingdales. Cher would have been proud.

So that was that.

Then on Tuesday, I visited a 1 bedroom apartment in Columbia Heights. It was quite a steal at $1000 a month. Whenever I find a listing that is reasonably priced, I am always forced to obsess over what could be wrong with it. In this case, it was barely larger than a breadbox (the guy showing it said 600 square feet, which might have been accurate if he meant 600 square feet minus 200 square feet). It was seriously small. It also had hardly any closet space, no dishwasher, no disposal, no elevator (3rd floor), and it looked directly into the windows of another apartment building. Now, as spoiled as I am, I can live without an elevator and a dishwasher. I can probably also live without a disposal. But 6 square feet of closet space is by no means acceptable, nor is having to watch the neighbors in their underwear every time I also happen to want sunlight. I suppose if I were both nudist and an exhibitionist, I could have been happy with the place. I mulled over all the ways in which I was being unreasonable and unrealistic and then decided to keep looking.

Tomorrow I go look at a 1 bedroom in Woodley Park only slightly out of my desired price range. I'll let you know why it's so cheap. I'm thinking that it might be made of paper mache.

What I learned: I do not think I am comfortable with neighborhoods that are in such an early stage of gentrification. I know this makes me something of a wimp, but I'd rather be a wimp who isn't stalked by guys on bikes than a victim of verbal abuse (or worse) in a cheap neighborhood.