a starbucks named desire, a play in one act

s exits her favorite starbucks, a tall tea and three law books in tow, and takes a seat at an empty table. she grins slightly as she acknowledges the familiar homeless woman sitting a few tables over. she spreads out her ethics books dutifully, and tries to actually learn the material she's been hearing the professor yammer on about all semester.

a few moments pass.

a young woman exits the starbucks, and sits at the table next to s.

[internal dialogue: s]: does dolce & gabbana make jeans with a big D&G in sequins? hm.

wow. that girl's ta-tas are really out there. and so not real. i mean, she is obviously barely legal, but that level of perk doesn't exist in nature. and she's just way too thin for those to be natural.

ooh, i wish rk were here to see this tall strappy gold heels. should i tell this girl it's only 4pm?

god i wish i knew russian so i could understand what she's saying to the person on the phone.

why does she keep looking at her watch?

these GW undergrads just get sluttier and sluttier.

[cue 70s porno music]

enter john, pennsylvania avenue, driving sweet ass vintage mercedes convertible. approximately 52 years of age, well-progressed balding. john nods at unknown girl, she hangs up the cell phone and walks - ney, slinks - to the car. handshake. short discussion (negotiations?). nods. john drives off with her.

s drops her jaw unabashedly, a wave of realization visibly crossing her face. a quiet guffaw, and glance at the nearest starbucks patrons, who are laughing and watching john and unknown girl drive off.

[internal dialogue: s]: holy shit. that guy just picked up a call girl! from starbucks! 4 blocks from the white house.

god i love this city.

for the love of all things holy

ok, you've caught me. i watch american idol. i have always watched american idol. i was on a plane with ruben once from detroit to grand rapids, and it was very exciting. i called my grandmother. i love american idol.

you know what i don't love? this guy.

i mean, wtf.

he can't sing, and last night he showed up on stage wearing a hairstyle based on a sleepover i had with my girlfriends when i was 12, when we'd had too much jolt and found a full bottle of hairspray.

wtf is he/the powers that be at american idol thinking?!

america, listen. if this guy got voted through again, i'm going to be very, very disappointed in you. i'll scowl and shake my head, i'll say things like what has this country come to? and kids these days, i'll tell ya.

i'm sure he's a nice guy, and i hope his friends and family are understanding when he comes out of the closet. i support him. but that doesn't mean he should be on american idol.

metro monday: ew.

these are the two winners i was jammed between this morning: sniffles mcfrumpy and man-who-sighs-heavily-into-my-hair.

let's start with sniffles.

i knew this woman was trouble when she walked up to me on the platform. a train had just passe, so there really weren't too many people waiting. but, despite all societal norms that suggest she stand a reasonable distance from me so as to not intrude into my personal space, she stood right next to me. our arms touching close to me. my guess is that she has a spot she stands so she's right in front of the door when the train stops, and i'm in that spot. so she's standing right effing next to me, all frumply and sniffly, and when the train pulls in, she gently shoves me to get closer to the door. oh, not today lady. i didn't shove back, but i didn't move. ok, i may have shoved back a little, but she started it!

so i got on the train first (sucka) and she stood next to me. she's one of those people that isn't that large, but insists on taking a lot of space. she's got one hand on this bar, she's leaning up against this one over here, and her elbows are splayed as she reads her trashy novel. her hair is sopping wet. i don't even think she took a towel to that mess. she is a mess. everytime the train stopped, she would mop up where her hair had dripped on her face, wipe her nose, scratch her eyes, wipe the edges of her mouth, and then put that wet, germy hand back up on the bar when the train started. what's more, every three seconds she'd sniffle. i was literally thinking, one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, sniffle. and sure enough.

my inner germ-a-phob begins to freak out.

so that's on my right.

on my left, we have man-who-sighs-heavily-into-my-hair. sighs, as in, multiple sighs. i know, sir, that my suave conditioner is intoxicating. i'm aware. but please. try to control yourself.

turns out this was the least of my concerns, because he had a huge sneezing fit and pulled out a well-used, too small kleenex into which he blew his nose like his life depended on it.

i admit it, i was thrilled to find the bottle of purell at the bottom of my bag as i dug for my smartcard.

alberto's: a love story

by and large, i am sorely disappointed with the culinary character of dc ... the dearth of bakeries, mom and pop restaurants, decent sausage (like fresh kielbasa), cheap clean diners for breakfast ... the city just seems to lack a personality when it comes to food.

but there is one gem, a diamond in the rough, a stand-out that has captured our affection. one place that i unabashedly adore and think everyone should try.

we first discovered alberto's a few years back after a night of moderately heavy drinking. i remember thinking that there was no way this pizza could be as good as i thought, and it was certainly the late hour and high blood-alcohol-content that had altered my tastebuds. but no, people. we went back on a sober, clear afternoon soon after ... and it really is that good.

for years, we have taken friends and family there on visits, and fought when bob went for lunch without me on a weekday. we grab a big slice, a pop (they call it pop! they call it pop!) and head out to dupont circle with our treasure to people watch. a better afternoon i cannot imagine. when we move into dc, the first thing i'll tell our real estate agent is that i must live within alberto's delivery area. that is not negotiable.

we, quite simply, love alberto's.

yesterday was a new chapter in our love affair. we ordered ahead and drove into the city to pick it up. i drove around the block, waiting for b to come out with the goods, my mouth literally watering. and i hope that smell never leaves my car, the smell of perfectly browned garlic crust, oregano and roasted red peppers. if heaven has a smell, i know what it is.

so for the love of all things holy, people. if you have not visited alberto's, do yourself a favor. there is no way you will be disappointed.

i love this kid, part 1 - M

anyone who knows me, i'm sure, quietly complains behind my back about how much i talk about my nephews.

obviously, i don't give a shit.

my nephews are awesome. they are brilliant and gorgeous and loving and pretty much perfect in every way. i adore them and hate being away from them. the older they get, the harder i cry when i leave. it's not pretty.

this is to serve as a preface to this and the next four weeks, in which they all three have birthdays. and today is the first.

today, the big M turns four. four? seriously? his mother was living with me when he was born, since my brother was in boot camp, so when she brought him home, it was to the apartment we shared. i spent so much time with him as a newborn, constantly in shock that my gene pool could be partially responsible for that little warm ball of perfection, that i really can't believe he's a kid now. but a kid he is, one who - he told me last weekend - wants cake and ice cream and presents at his birthday party. i told you he was brilliant. (also, his exuberant answer to my mom asking him who's coming to his birthday party is uncle b and aunt s! which obviously means he's getting extra toys.)

so happy birthday, kiddo. you're awesome. and adorable.

metro monday: metro - a promising second career for those with anger management issues?

originally, i was going to blog about the ginormous blue suitcase that was hanging out on the train sans owner right in front of the door ... about how no one seemed to mind ... about how big an explosive device could be in there ... about how i thought about moving to another car of the train for about a nanosecond before immediately deciding there was no way i was giving up my seat.

but then, i heard it. i heard this sing-songy voice over the PA announcing the next stop in a strange cadence that could have very easily transitioned into i do not like green eggs and ham, i do not like them sam i am without skipping a beat. i turned to b and asked, don't you think this guy's voice is really strange? and he said, guy? you think this is a guy?

that was at courthouse. so obviously we spent the next ten minutes before i got off the train eagerly waiting for another sample of this confusing voice. we'd quietly discuss our opinion and then stop mid-sentence as soon as we thought s/he would start talking again. there was no real consensus by the time we reached foggy bottom.

as luck would have it, we were near the front at the train .... so when i got off the train, i was hoping to catch a glimpse of him/her as s/he looked back before closing the train doors.

and i can't be sure, it was dark down there. but i'm pretty sure it was mike tyson. which kinda makes sense.

i have fucking ruined our washing machine: part three (in which the glorious misadventures of s and her crappyass rugs concludes)

yeah, the maintenance guys fixed our washing machine. and that's about it. i blogged with the word fuck a whole lot over kind of not a big deal.

but that's ok. fuck is my favorite swear. fuck fuck fuck.

i would like to say that if i still lived in a charles e. smith building (well, i certainly wouldn't have a washing machine, but still) this ordeal would have taken weeks, people. weeks. i hate charles e. smith. but that's for another day.

i have fucking ruined our washing machine: part two

the draino didn't help one bit. strangely, neither did the half(ish) bottle of wine, though to be fair, that actually wasn't for the washing machine so much as because of the washing machine.


b kindly assured me that he would have thrown those crappyass rugs in the washing machine too - any reasonable person would have. because, let's be honest, who the hell is going to handwash $3 kitchen rugs from target? i mean, b pointed out, what are we supposed to do, take them down to the stream and beat them against the banks? they filled all the creeks around here with cement long ago. and the potomac? b: i wouldn't throw trash in the potomac! let alone a rug! and you can take that to the bank!*


i hid the slightly torn up, crappyass rugs this morning, and made b tell the doorman, as i cowered behind like a little kid. i was afraid if he asked me one question, i would've broken like khalid sheikh mohammed and admitted the whole thing. wait a second. i should check those transcripts with all the crazy things he's admitted to. maybe he broke my washing machine ...

let's hope this is only a trilogy. if not, rk can i come over and use your washing machine? i promise to leave the rugs at home.

*i don't know what the hell that means either.

i have fucking ruined our washing machine: part one

let me catch you up to this point. b is at a happy hour which i declined to attend in favor of staying at home, reveling in the fact that i didn't bother to shower before class today, clean this messy apartment, do some laundry, drink some wine, in general just chill out.

at approximately 6:32 i realized that there was a problem. the new, cheap but cute rugs we bought from target (like a million we've bought and ran through before) had gone through the wash once a few days ago, but because i was positive mold had formed or something equally ridiculous, i washed them again before throwing them in the dryer. but when i went to throw them in the dryer, the washing machine kind of had not drained. at all.

fuck.

i ran the spin cycle three more times after consulting with the sister-in-law that i was positive had done this on a number of occassions, and that's what she said to do. so i tried it. and then i emptied the machine, and tried it again. and again. ps using a 2-cup pyrex measuring to empty a full-sized washing machine - twice - really is pretty much the most frustrating activity i can imagine. or at least it is this evening.

for awhile, i just figured i'd do my part to take care of it since a maintenance person for the building wouldn't be available til the morning. but they'd take care of it. because, i thought as i checked the soaking wet rugs i had wrung out and thrown into the dryer, it's not my fault these rugs ... FUCK. handwash only. in other words, if you put these cheapass rugs in the washing machine, you damn fool, you are fucked.

so now i'm panicking.

i ran out in the freezing rain to giant to get some drain-o. that shit works miracles, right? ok, they're not going to make me pay for a plumber or a new washing machine, right? RIGHT? i was sort of pacing in the elevator lobby in the parking garage when i caught myself in the reflection. awesome - i just went out in public wearing the least flattering pair of yoga pants a woman has ever put on. so now i feel like an idiot for putting cheapass rugs in the washing machine, and i feel fat. goddamn it.

just as i'm putting the draino in the machine, i notice a few shreds of cheapass rugs floating. i started to reach in but looked at the back of the bottle. nice. if i touch draino, it will burn my skin. fanfuckingtastic. so now, if the draino doesn't work, there really is nothing more i can do except tell the management i'm a fucking idiot and hope they don't make me pay for someone to fix the machine.

then b calls. i'm on my way home now from the happy hour, he says. so i start going into the situation we have here, and he cuts me off. ok, well, i'm sure it's fine. i'll talk to you later. click.

whatthefuckwasthatdidhejustfuckinghanguponme?

he'd better be drunk. or in the lobby about to get on the elevator and surprise me because he's actually here and not leaving the bar.

it was the latter.

so here we are. he's positive it's no big deal and also that draino really won't burn his skin despite the warning label if he sticks in his hand. i'm positive i'm an idiot (and fat) (and that i need to get another big glass of wine) and that we're going to have to pay some amount of money to pay for this shit. (did i mention we have bought 4 plane tickets this week?)

the draino has been in for a half hour now. fingers crossed that it somehow eats away all the particles of cheapass rug. wish me luck.

on bicyclists and gay marriage ...

maybe someone can enlighten me (as well as the reader that suggest i address this really annoying segment of the dc population) about whether bicyclists in dc have their own set of special rules that state they can be total assholes and ignore all traffic rules and common courtesy ... because if the city council has passed some sort of legislation that allows this ridiculous behavior, i would love to know.

bicyclists, it seems to me, refuse to comply with either pedestrian or vehicular rules. i'm always seeing them blow through red lights and refusing to yield to either car or pedestrian. i love when i see a bicyclist get pissed when a car tries to pass them because, oh i don't know, they're going 7. i totally support bike riding as a very reasonable alternative to driving and polution. i think it's great. but i think the attitude of many bicyclists around there that they don't have to be polite or follow traffic rules is pretty problematic. if you want to ride your bike on the road, fine. but seriously - don't ride through a red light and then get pissed when someone honks at you because they've had to slam on their brakes when they were just trying to proceed through a green light. or don't yell at me when i'm attempting to cross the street with a walk sign and exercise my right of way. listen, spandex boy, i don't yield my right-of-way to cars, and you can be damn sure i'm not going to yield it for you.

(beware: this entry is about to take a very random turn)

it's quite possible, i admit, that my anger towards bicyclists is related to the fact that a certain dreaded acquaintance as well as a man from my past both are avid bicyclists ... and also stand for something that i despise: gay marriage. no, no. not same-sex marriage. i'm absolutely cool with that. (does any married couple REALLY think that their relationship with their spouse is at all impacted by the legal status of other couples? really? don't lie to me. because i think you're lying to me.) when i say i'm against gay marriage i mean i'm against secretly gay men who marry straight women. i happen to think it's a horrible thing. i mean, could you please own up to the fact that you're gay, deal with whatever familial or societal disapproval comes with that, and move on? rather than, i don't know, subjecting a woman to a life of wondering or finding out when you have an affair with a man ... and leave her with your fucked up children when you run off?

i’m not just running off my mouth here, i happen to have some authority on this issue. my grandfather was gay (he still would be except he’s dead). and i'm not angry with him - in the late 1940s when he married my grandmother, he really had little choice. society was different. i’m proud of him for the struggles he went through to come out. but the remnants of a childhood marred by parental depression, confusion, and the possibility that probably his father didn’t want to have a family are still with my dad, and have really scarred him. so honestly, i think it's terribly selfish, and in modern society totally avoidable. you don't want to go through the awkwardness of telling your family that you're gay, so you're going to ruin a woman and bring kids into the world that will spend the rest of their lives dealing with the fact that they were the result of a sham marriage and that you probably never really wanted them? awesome.

if you're a gay man and you're thinking about marrying a straight woman, please don't. also, please don't be an asshole on your bike. thank you.