on an early winter day six and a half years ago, having been tapped to introduce a performer at my undergraduate college, i was practicing my schpiel in the car with my new boyfriend as we drove to campus. i had written the whole grant proposal to get this musician to michigan from israel, and my professor totally screwed me by not even letting me have a lesson with the guy. instead, apparently, he thought i'd be satisfied getting to introduce him at some recital. which was total bullshit. nonetheless, i wrote a great introduction, and was rehearsing it in the car with b right before the recital when, for some reason, i slipped into the eastern european accent i'd been goofing around with the day before over drinks ... right as i was getting to ... "he is a violist of the highest caliber ..." it was at a point for us when everything was still so new, when we were reveling in those little inside jokes, things we thought we might keep in our pockets for ages, but we didn't quite know for sure. and for some reason, when i said "of the highest caliber" in a crazy eastern european accent, it was the funniest thing either of us had ever heard. i remember driving past the D&W, laughing so hard i was crying, yelling to b that he should pull over because he was laughing so hard.
it's been a phrase for us that has always been hilarious.
but today, today it took a turn.
i was sitting in my k street office, listening to congressional testimony being given by b's boss on cspan radio that i knew he'd written, rummaging through breach of contract cases and minding my own business, when i heard it.
"the staff will be of the highest caliber."
it was like someone came into my office and handed me a box with all the progress we've made, with a map of how far we've come, and shoved it into my arms. suddenly, six years seemed like no time whatsoever. six years ago we were a couple of kids in kalamazoo, busting our guts over some stupid line in a stupid speech about a stupid musician that i said in a stupid accent. all of a sudden, here we are. i'm sitting in my k street office, he's written it into congressional testimony. shit, i wrote congressional testimony a few weeks ago.
how. did. this. happen.
this summer, for me, has been an exercise in walking assertively through doors i'd never thought would be opened for me. literally, figuratively ... it's all the same. but there was something about hearing that phrase on cspan radio. it was like someone asked me, as i was walking into a restaurant that i'd never pay for, whether i belonged. like a doubletake. it was something, i don't know what, but it got to me.
and now i'm wondering - how many more times will we make our powerful bosses utter that phrase just to amuse the other person? or will i utter it in court just for a grin? now it's a challenge - and now i love those two college kids in kalamazoo even more than i did before.
(b's editorial response to my first reading of this: "that is a blog of the highest caliber." indeed.)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
man v. wild
it had all the ingredients for a perfect sunday afternoon: a tigers game, a bottle of chateau chantal, a bottle of our old friend chuck , the best steak sandwiches b has ever made and no work to do. but then it happened. b reached that predictable stage when he's a little buzzed where he says, hm, how about a cigarette?
so out onto the balcony we go, after i have adequately pounded on the sliding glass door to make sure there is no pigeon hanging out behind the table top we have leaning against our balcony wall (the pigeons were landing on the table, so we just took the top off). nothing. b follows me out, and i ask him to scooch the table top back a little further, because apparently the 3" gap we inadvertently left between the table and the wall was not too small for the pigeons. obviously, you see where this is going. he picks up the table, and there is obviously a pigeon back there.
awesome.
after regrouping (and hoping that the neighbors didn't hear me scream like a girl) (actually, who cares? i am a girl.) b decides to go back out, knock the table down and scare away the pigeon. i, of course, am concerned he may get a serious pecking, as is he, so he suits up. jacket, vest, hat, gloves, the whole nine yards. no one is pecking my beautiful husband, oh no. i gave him a quick kiss, told him good luck, and sent him into the battle field. he used the end of a broom to knock down the table top, and the pigeon scrambled but flew away. and then we saw it: the nest.
even fricking better.
so now obviously the pigeons are PISSED. daddy pigeon, we realize, has been sitting a couple balconies over this entire time. he's giving us the evil eye. and swearing at us under his breathe. meanwhile, b keep saying, if only we were italian, they'd be goners.*
at this point, i'm ready to throw in the hat. by that i mean, take our wine down to the courtyard and have a cigarette down there. and at first, b was with me. but as we're about to get on the elevator, he turns back.
dude, i'm just going to throw that nest away. i'll go out there, throw it in a trashbag, and be done with it.
are you KIDDING me?
no, i'm going to do it. or at least smash them or something so the pigeons will stay away.
ok, gross. no. what if the pigeon sees you?! they're going to peck the shit out of you. seriously.
s, you're being ridiculous. they're not going to peck me.
yes they are.
no they aren't.
yes. they. are.
ok, maybe they are.
let's just tell the management. we pay enough in rent for someone else to deal with this.
s wins. s also hopes that none of the neighbors have heard this bizarre argument that we've just had in the hallway from their apartments.
sitting down in the courtyard, we positioned our chairs so we could see our balcony. and it didn't take long before the pigeons started circling. eventually, momma hopped back onto the balcony, we hoped to kill the eggs and then leave, since we'd tampered with them or some shit. but no.
we got back to the apartment, and she was there sitting on the nest, daring us. we banged on the door a couple times, and she just yelled in to us, FUCK OFF ASSHOLES.
right after she called us assholes, b started to feel a little bad about the whole situation.
s, are we, like, impeding nature or something? i mean, she's just a bird with her eggs.
no we are not. nature doesn't count if it's gross. and that's gross.
fair enough.
*b has recently learned that italians eat pigeons.
so out onto the balcony we go, after i have adequately pounded on the sliding glass door to make sure there is no pigeon hanging out behind the table top we have leaning against our balcony wall (the pigeons were landing on the table, so we just took the top off). nothing. b follows me out, and i ask him to scooch the table top back a little further, because apparently the 3" gap we inadvertently left between the table and the wall was not too small for the pigeons. obviously, you see where this is going. he picks up the table, and there is obviously a pigeon back there.
awesome.
after regrouping (and hoping that the neighbors didn't hear me scream like a girl) (actually, who cares? i am a girl.) b decides to go back out, knock the table down and scare away the pigeon. i, of course, am concerned he may get a serious pecking, as is he, so he suits up. jacket, vest, hat, gloves, the whole nine yards. no one is pecking my beautiful husband, oh no. i gave him a quick kiss, told him good luck, and sent him into the battle field. he used the end of a broom to knock down the table top, and the pigeon scrambled but flew away. and then we saw it: the nest.
even fricking better.
so now obviously the pigeons are PISSED. daddy pigeon, we realize, has been sitting a couple balconies over this entire time. he's giving us the evil eye. and swearing at us under his breathe. meanwhile, b keep saying, if only we were italian, they'd be goners.*
at this point, i'm ready to throw in the hat. by that i mean, take our wine down to the courtyard and have a cigarette down there. and at first, b was with me. but as we're about to get on the elevator, he turns back.
dude, i'm just going to throw that nest away. i'll go out there, throw it in a trashbag, and be done with it.
are you KIDDING me?
no, i'm going to do it. or at least smash them or something so the pigeons will stay away.
ok, gross. no. what if the pigeon sees you?! they're going to peck the shit out of you. seriously.
s, you're being ridiculous. they're not going to peck me.
yes they are.
no they aren't.
yes. they. are.
ok, maybe they are.
let's just tell the management. we pay enough in rent for someone else to deal with this.
s wins. s also hopes that none of the neighbors have heard this bizarre argument that we've just had in the hallway from their apartments.
sitting down in the courtyard, we positioned our chairs so we could see our balcony. and it didn't take long before the pigeons started circling. eventually, momma hopped back onto the balcony, we hoped to kill the eggs and then leave, since we'd tampered with them or some shit. but no.
we got back to the apartment, and she was there sitting on the nest, daring us. we banged on the door a couple times, and she just yelled in to us, FUCK OFF ASSHOLES.
right after she called us assholes, b started to feel a little bad about the whole situation.
s, are we, like, impeding nature or something? i mean, she's just a bird with her eggs.
no we are not. nature doesn't count if it's gross. and that's gross.
fair enough.
*b has recently learned that italians eat pigeons.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
chicago (i fell in love again)
as a kid, i thought chicago had to be the biggest city on earth. and i used to love that it touched my lake ... the lake i swam in every day, back in my little town. i remember holding my breathe as we drove through gary, thinking that it was some kind of moat, some protection for this beautiful city, so that only the people who really wanted to be in chicago could get there.
when i was in college, just a few hours east on I-94, chicago became something of a center for self-realization. it was staring down a terminal in o'hare as my high school boyfriend walked away that i knew that relationship was over. and where, a year later, i boarded my first (ok, only) flight to europe. it was after a daytrip to chicago, as a college boyfriend slept and i drove us back to kalamazoo in my crappy cavalier, that i looked over at him and thought, what the hell am i doing with this chump? and not just because he basically made me pay for everything all day. there were a lot of little things wrong with him, all of which added up to him just not being a man.
and then there was that perfect june afternoon in chicago, six years ago, sitting by the chicago river in the few hours between being dropped off after a long drive back from a two week music festival and catching a train back to kalamazoo, my instrument and luggage stuffed into a locker at the train station. in my mind, i remember this day like one of those pictures where one person is standing still and the whole world around her is buzzing by. having the hurt still fresh from being stood up (again) and left sitting on the steps in front of the building where i was staying until 2am waiting (again), ashamed (again) to return to my room and my roommate, i finally got it. sometimes no matter how much shit you put up with or how badly you want a relationship to work, it can't. or maybe even if it could, it isn't worth it. i realized i didn't want to spend my whole life standing still, waiting, while everyone around me ... lived their lives. a girl has to stand up for herself, and that guy wasn't a man either. more importantly, even if i bought his excuses (again) and somehow it worked out, i didn't really want to live the life i'd have with him anyway. i wanted to fall in line with the suited, happy chicagoans bustling between their highrise office buildings, follow them back to their jobs where they got to think and work hard and laugh with their smart coworkers - and i wanted to leave that instrument in the train station locker, along with everyone's goals and expectations for my music career. i wanted to tell someone that i wanted out, but i had no one (yet). i knew, or at least in hindsight i'd like to think i knew, that i'd find my place and it wouldn't have anything to do with that expensive hunk of wood back at the train station.
i haven't been to chicago since that afternoon. until last weekend.
leaving chicago this time was not on an amtrak back to kalamazoo with my instrument, but asking the bellhop for my luxury hotel to please whistle me a cab to o'hare ... sleeping on the sticky leather bench seat in the back through traffic, and asking the driver for a receipt (so someone else could pay for it) ... watching the skyline disappear under me as my lake glimmered in the evening sun under the plane.
it was like leaving home, and it hurt like hell.
i've had a crush on chicago for a long, long time... and that weekend was the first time i really thought i had a chance with her. she's not out of my league. we are so in the same league. i could get a job, and we'd have enough money to see the lake from our condo, we could spend a random saturday on the michigan avenue side of my lake, gazing out on that big old childhood friend, whose gravity is tangible, like a lasso around my gut. walking through the gold coast neighborhood, i could see us there, with a dog and a newspaper tucked under an arm, looking for a restaurant to sit in front of all afternoon. those were our people - the smart young smiley ones enjoying the big city but (more likely than not) still close enough to home home to visit on weekends. to be a part of both worlds - city and home home.
but b's career path, as unclear and windy as i'm sure it will be, will by my estimates be long confined to the beltway. i like it here, and we can find a neighborhood in this city where we'll be content, where we'll find restaurants to sit in front of and drink away a saturday afternoon (evidence: yesterday). sure, we won't be near my lake, but luckily b is more magnetic. his lasso around my gut has a much, much stronger pull.
when i was in college, just a few hours east on I-94, chicago became something of a center for self-realization. it was staring down a terminal in o'hare as my high school boyfriend walked away that i knew that relationship was over. and where, a year later, i boarded my first (ok, only) flight to europe. it was after a daytrip to chicago, as a college boyfriend slept and i drove us back to kalamazoo in my crappy cavalier, that i looked over at him and thought, what the hell am i doing with this chump? and not just because he basically made me pay for everything all day. there were a lot of little things wrong with him, all of which added up to him just not being a man.
and then there was that perfect june afternoon in chicago, six years ago, sitting by the chicago river in the few hours between being dropped off after a long drive back from a two week music festival and catching a train back to kalamazoo, my instrument and luggage stuffed into a locker at the train station. in my mind, i remember this day like one of those pictures where one person is standing still and the whole world around her is buzzing by. having the hurt still fresh from being stood up (again) and left sitting on the steps in front of the building where i was staying until 2am waiting (again), ashamed (again) to return to my room and my roommate, i finally got it. sometimes no matter how much shit you put up with or how badly you want a relationship to work, it can't. or maybe even if it could, it isn't worth it. i realized i didn't want to spend my whole life standing still, waiting, while everyone around me ... lived their lives. a girl has to stand up for herself, and that guy wasn't a man either. more importantly, even if i bought his excuses (again) and somehow it worked out, i didn't really want to live the life i'd have with him anyway. i wanted to fall in line with the suited, happy chicagoans bustling between their highrise office buildings, follow them back to their jobs where they got to think and work hard and laugh with their smart coworkers - and i wanted to leave that instrument in the train station locker, along with everyone's goals and expectations for my music career. i wanted to tell someone that i wanted out, but i had no one (yet). i knew, or at least in hindsight i'd like to think i knew, that i'd find my place and it wouldn't have anything to do with that expensive hunk of wood back at the train station.
i haven't been to chicago since that afternoon. until last weekend.
leaving chicago this time was not on an amtrak back to kalamazoo with my instrument, but asking the bellhop for my luxury hotel to please whistle me a cab to o'hare ... sleeping on the sticky leather bench seat in the back through traffic, and asking the driver for a receipt (so someone else could pay for it) ... watching the skyline disappear under me as my lake glimmered in the evening sun under the plane.
it was like leaving home, and it hurt like hell.
i've had a crush on chicago for a long, long time... and that weekend was the first time i really thought i had a chance with her. she's not out of my league. we are so in the same league. i could get a job, and we'd have enough money to see the lake from our condo, we could spend a random saturday on the michigan avenue side of my lake, gazing out on that big old childhood friend, whose gravity is tangible, like a lasso around my gut. walking through the gold coast neighborhood, i could see us there, with a dog and a newspaper tucked under an arm, looking for a restaurant to sit in front of all afternoon. those were our people - the smart young smiley ones enjoying the big city but (more likely than not) still close enough to home home to visit on weekends. to be a part of both worlds - city and home home.
but b's career path, as unclear and windy as i'm sure it will be, will by my estimates be long confined to the beltway. i like it here, and we can find a neighborhood in this city where we'll be content, where we'll find restaurants to sit in front of and drink away a saturday afternoon (evidence: yesterday). sure, we won't be near my lake, but luckily b is more magnetic. his lasso around my gut has a much, much stronger pull.
Monday, July 02, 2007
did you hear that? it was my my last shred of hope that there is justice in america being torn out of my totally unsurprised hands
dear neglected internet,
let me first be clear: there is no love lost between myself and paris hilton. i think she's a terrible excuse for a twenty-something woman, and i frankly find it insulting that my generation is associated with her. but having said that, all she did was drive without a license a couple times after being caught driving drunk. and initially i thought her jail sentence was totally fair. teach that girl a lesson, right? i mean, don't tell me that girl doesn't have a fine, fine lawyer who knows damn well what a suspended license is.
but then.
but then, today, someone who exposed a mother fucking CIA agent for political reasons got his goddamn sentence commuted.
he exposed a CIA agent. and he is not even serving as much time as paris hilton.
you have got to be fucking kidding me.
let me first be clear: there is no love lost between myself and paris hilton. i think she's a terrible excuse for a twenty-something woman, and i frankly find it insulting that my generation is associated with her. but having said that, all she did was drive without a license a couple times after being caught driving drunk. and initially i thought her jail sentence was totally fair. teach that girl a lesson, right? i mean, don't tell me that girl doesn't have a fine, fine lawyer who knows damn well what a suspended license is.
but then.
but then, today, someone who exposed a mother fucking CIA agent for political reasons got his goddamn sentence commuted.
he exposed a CIA agent. and he is not even serving as much time as paris hilton.
you have got to be fucking kidding me.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
i know, cry me a river.
am i really so busy that i can't spare a few moments for a blog? or that i can't be bothered to unzip my suitcase from last weekend's quick trip to michigan for a wine festival? or to do the four loads of laundry piled up by the washing machine? or put the iron or this morning's paper away? or drop off those shoes from zappo's we need to ship back at the nearest fedex store?
to be fair, i can't exactly skip those obligatory margarita-laden, four-hour happy hours - wherein i further charm people and convince them that i really should get an offer to come back after law school - to clean my apartment. or buy groceries. i mean, i have to get face time, right? and drink margaritas? and stumble out of the cab nearly drunk to make b dinner because it's past ten and he's just left work?
i've been stewing over a debriefing blog, where i plan to detail all the things i've learned over my summer vacation. but i can tell you one thing i've definitely already learned: i am definitely going to need to hire a cleaning service. for real.
to be fair, i can't exactly skip those obligatory margarita-laden, four-hour happy hours - wherein i further charm people and convince them that i really should get an offer to come back after law school - to clean my apartment. or buy groceries. i mean, i have to get face time, right? and drink margaritas? and stumble out of the cab nearly drunk to make b dinner because it's past ten and he's just left work?
i've been stewing over a debriefing blog, where i plan to detail all the things i've learned over my summer vacation. but i can tell you one thing i've definitely already learned: i am definitely going to need to hire a cleaning service. for real.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
an open letter to nascar
dear nascar,
let's be honest right out of the gate. i don't care for you. and even though rk will perhaps scowl at me for a few days after this revelation, i'm being honest. i don't like you. and b really doesn't like you.
but, i could. really. if you changed. and i have a few suggestions, a few ways i think you could broaden your appeal past the drunken southern white trash crowd.* b might reconsider. that is saying something.
let's make this a real sport.
option 1:
you know how nascar fans are always drunk? (yes, s, of course they're always drunk. they're watching cars drive around in circles for hundreds. of. miles. they'd have to be drunk. or, probably, they'd pull out that concealed weapon the 2nd amendment allegedly gives them the right to and blow their brains out.) well, if the fans are always drunk, maybe the drivers should follow their lead. if the drivers were legally drunk (and for variety, we could just apply the DUI level for the state in which the race is taking place), then i would totally watch. because we all know that driving drunk is not easy. don't act all shocked like you've never done it. we've all done it. and it's a feat. if these guys were drunk, hurling their white trash souped up cars in a circle at 180mph, i would watch. and i would be impressed.
option 2:
let's shorten the race to about 50 miles and give each driver a nice joint before they jump behind the wheel. first of all, the drivers would feel like it was 800 miles, minimum. and that shit would be hilarious. extra points if they broadcast the radio conversations between the drivers and the pit crew: "duuuude. i feel like my head weighs 50 pounds and i've been driving in this car for two weeks. and i can't find the doritos." ooh, the pit stops would include gas, tire changes, and snacks. and drive thrus? taco bell, white castle, you should really look into this. it would be awesome.
i'm just sayin. you've already really won over the south. why don't you work on us yuppie yankees? expand. although, you might have to ditch the protestant minister that says grace before each race. i find that offensive, and even if the drivers were drunk and/or high (and/or? oh, option 3 perhaps???) i'd have a hard time getting over the prayer. what's more, i assume that you'd rather add alcohol or drugs to your races than, oh i don't know, minorities or women.
*yes. i said it. so what! this is my blog. i'll engage in broad generalizations if i damn well please. rk is the obvious exception. frankly, i'm still perplexed over her nascar affection. she's an enigma. truly.
let's be honest right out of the gate. i don't care for you. and even though rk will perhaps scowl at me for a few days after this revelation, i'm being honest. i don't like you. and b really doesn't like you.
but, i could. really. if you changed. and i have a few suggestions, a few ways i think you could broaden your appeal past the drunken southern white trash crowd.* b might reconsider. that is saying something.
let's make this a real sport.
option 1:
you know how nascar fans are always drunk? (yes, s, of course they're always drunk. they're watching cars drive around in circles for hundreds. of. miles. they'd have to be drunk. or, probably, they'd pull out that concealed weapon the 2nd amendment allegedly gives them the right to and blow their brains out.) well, if the fans are always drunk, maybe the drivers should follow their lead. if the drivers were legally drunk (and for variety, we could just apply the DUI level for the state in which the race is taking place), then i would totally watch. because we all know that driving drunk is not easy. don't act all shocked like you've never done it. we've all done it. and it's a feat. if these guys were drunk, hurling their white trash souped up cars in a circle at 180mph, i would watch. and i would be impressed.
option 2:
let's shorten the race to about 50 miles and give each driver a nice joint before they jump behind the wheel. first of all, the drivers would feel like it was 800 miles, minimum. and that shit would be hilarious. extra points if they broadcast the radio conversations between the drivers and the pit crew: "duuuude. i feel like my head weighs 50 pounds and i've been driving in this car for two weeks. and i can't find the doritos." ooh, the pit stops would include gas, tire changes, and snacks. and drive thrus? taco bell, white castle, you should really look into this. it would be awesome.
i'm just sayin. you've already really won over the south. why don't you work on us yuppie yankees? expand. although, you might have to ditch the protestant minister that says grace before each race. i find that offensive, and even if the drivers were drunk and/or high (and/or? oh, option 3 perhaps???) i'd have a hard time getting over the prayer. what's more, i assume that you'd rather add alcohol or drugs to your races than, oh i don't know, minorities or women.
*yes. i said it. so what! this is my blog. i'll engage in broad generalizations if i damn well please. rk is the obvious exception. frankly, i'm still perplexed over her nascar affection. she's an enigma. truly.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
the bizarro world that has become my life
tonight, my "professor" - after watching a video for the first 45 minutes of class - gave us cookies.
what a strange juxtaposition. by day, faux lawyer extraordinaire. going to court to watch oral arguments, being told to "pencil in" the prep for that eight circuit argument next month, hearing the word perfect to describe my work by a partner a half dozen times. by night, a first grader.
i'm not complaining. i'm just wishing i could've gotten a cold glass of milk and a mat to take a nap on.
(and no, i won't be gone all summer ... but i won't blog from work (not, uh, that i ever blogged from work) and also, as i mentioned before, i don't want to bore you all with my temporarily awesome life.)
what a strange juxtaposition. by day, faux lawyer extraordinaire. going to court to watch oral arguments, being told to "pencil in" the prep for that eight circuit argument next month, hearing the word perfect to describe my work by a partner a half dozen times. by night, a first grader.
i'm not complaining. i'm just wishing i could've gotten a cold glass of milk and a mat to take a nap on.
(and no, i won't be gone all summer ... but i won't blog from work (not, uh, that i ever blogged from work) and also, as i mentioned before, i don't want to bore you all with my temporarily awesome life.)
Sunday, May 27, 2007
and i feel fine
as i exited my office building onto k street friday evening after my first week as a fake lawyer, the draft of my first project sitting on my desk waiting for me to proofread her tuesday morning, i decided to shuffle my ipod and see what insight my little friend had. i got r.e.m.'s it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine). i nearly stopped in my tracks. it really is, isn't it? oh, ipod.
the bad news: i've been trying to craft a post about how incredibly awesome my life has been for the past six days, and is going to be through the end of july, but it turns out i'm only funny when i'm jaded. when i'm happy and excited and completely satisfied, i come off as a conceited ass. and you don't want to read that, trust me. because there's a fine line between cleverly describing this new world i've entered and bragging about it ... and right now i think i'm coming down on the wrong side of that line.
the good news: when this little bubble bursts (temporarily) and i have to return for my third year of law school, i'll be bitter and even more annoyed that usual.
bear with me, friends. i'll try not to make you sick over the summer if you try to stick it out until bitter s returns in the fall.
the bad news: i've been trying to craft a post about how incredibly awesome my life has been for the past six days, and is going to be through the end of july, but it turns out i'm only funny when i'm jaded. when i'm happy and excited and completely satisfied, i come off as a conceited ass. and you don't want to read that, trust me. because there's a fine line between cleverly describing this new world i've entered and bragging about it ... and right now i think i'm coming down on the wrong side of that line.
the good news: when this little bubble bursts (temporarily) and i have to return for my third year of law school, i'll be bitter and even more annoyed that usual.
bear with me, friends. i'll try not to make you sick over the summer if you try to stick it out until bitter s returns in the fall.
Monday, May 21, 2007
metro monday: better late than never OR fake lawyer and ventriloquism
did i even ride the train this morning? is it still monday? i have this vague recollection of being in the shower contemplating the fucked up dreams i had last night (including one where i was clinging to a giant stone column in the middle of the ocean, huge waves crashing on me but somehow still hanging on, for example. also my dad was there talking to me. i think he was in a raft. and i think he may have thought i was my nephew. wtf?), freaking out over my collar not lying quite right under my suit, then i was sitting in the park across from my (gulp) office waiting to go in so i wouldn't be too early, and then i was on my 4th cup of coffee, talking about cabbies in dc v. ny and the importance of not putting off your billing.
and then i sat in my office staring at my desk for 20 minutes. i really wanted to stare out the window ... my window ... but that just would have been weird.
but b, he had a perfect metro monday ... one way more interesting than reading my scattered reminiscing about the weirdness of my first day as a fake lawyer. but as i'm a bit exhausted and b isn't much into the blogging, i'll just relay his telling of it.
b: so i got on the train this morning, and there was this woman just standing in the doorway with a wheelchair.
s: you mean, sitting in a wheel chair.
b: no. standing.
s: was there anyone in the chair?
b: no.
s: so she's?
b: standing behind an empty wheelchair.
s: ah.
b: right, so first of all, if i had an empty wheelchair on the metro during rush hour, i'd at least take a seat.
s: you mean, move it out of the way or ..
b: no, i mean in the wheelchair. i mean, jesus, it's an empty seat, right?
s: [smiling as i picture b, suitclad, sitting in an empty wheelchair, legs casually crossed, reading the metro express, in a crammed rush hour train.]
b: i almost asked her, is anyone sitting there? i mean, we were crammed in there like sardines. i could've used the seat.
s: that would have been something, dude. seriously.
b: but that's not the weird part. then she started doing ventriloquism.
s: ventriloquism? did she have a puppet?
b: no.
s: oh.
b: it was fucked up. she was definitely crazy, and i felt kinda sorry for her. but it was hilarious.
s: ventriloquism?
b: yeah. all i could think was, dude i wish s were here.
s: and that you wanted to sit in the wheelchair.
b: and that.
and then i sat in my office staring at my desk for 20 minutes. i really wanted to stare out the window ... my window ... but that just would have been weird.
but b, he had a perfect metro monday ... one way more interesting than reading my scattered reminiscing about the weirdness of my first day as a fake lawyer. but as i'm a bit exhausted and b isn't much into the blogging, i'll just relay his telling of it.
b: so i got on the train this morning, and there was this woman just standing in the doorway with a wheelchair.
s: you mean, sitting in a wheel chair.
b: no. standing.
s: was there anyone in the chair?
b: no.
s: so she's?
b: standing behind an empty wheelchair.
s: ah.
b: right, so first of all, if i had an empty wheelchair on the metro during rush hour, i'd at least take a seat.
s: you mean, move it out of the way or ..
b: no, i mean in the wheelchair. i mean, jesus, it's an empty seat, right?
s: [smiling as i picture b, suitclad, sitting in an empty wheelchair, legs casually crossed, reading the metro express, in a crammed rush hour train.]
b: i almost asked her, is anyone sitting there? i mean, we were crammed in there like sardines. i could've used the seat.
s: that would have been something, dude. seriously.
b: but that's not the weird part. then she started doing ventriloquism.
s: ventriloquism? did she have a puppet?
b: no.
s: oh.
b: it was fucked up. she was definitely crazy, and i felt kinda sorry for her. but it was hilarious.
s: ventriloquism?
b: yeah. all i could think was, dude i wish s were here.
s: and that you wanted to sit in the wheelchair.
b: and that.
Monday, May 14, 2007
metro monday: the mystery of the ghost train
i'm a showoff. you see, b doesn't have very good vision, but refuses to go to an eye doctor and get glasses. i, however, have great vision. and whenever possible, i like to read something really far away to remind him that he can't bloody see and for the love of god will he please get some glasses.
for example, the metro signs. i like to tell him how long we have to wait for a car of what length as soon as it is in sight in the morning - knowing full well that he won't be able to read it until we're less than twenty feet from the sign. it's my little passive aggressive wife thing, and i'm sure he doesn't notice and it's getting me no closer to having a wildly hot husband who also wears glasses. (i like glasses.) nonetheless.
this morning was no different. as we scooted past the lost retired tourists and the sign came into the sight just before we stepped on the escalator, i chirped, ooh! an eight car train! in three minutes! perfect!
we hustled down to the front of the platform, b pointed out the schmoe wearing a black shirt and brown shoes. you could blog about that guy! what the hell is he wearing? (god i love this man.) a train came and went in the other direction, and suddenly b said, hey, i thought you said the train was in three minutes. i looked over to the sign and imagine my surprise. it said our train was boarding. curious, seeing as how there was no train and all. so the invisible train came and went, the platform quickly filling, and we waited for the next train. that train also arrived, boarded and left (according to the sign) with no actual train. the only logical explanation was that, of course, somehow time and space had intersected, and the metro was invisible, full of ghosts. a ghost train. obviously.
but the third time was a charm. as we got on the train, i couldn't help but wonder if we'd be transported to the great beyond instead of foggy bottom. and things seemed normal, until i made a face at bob about the big old man behind me who kept bumping into me with his gut. then, after he looked at the fellow, his eyes got really big. he leaned in as close as possible and whispered in my ear, oh my god! it's hemingway! and i couldn't get a good look - all i could see was the book in his huge hands. what's he reading? i mouthed to b. i can't tell, he mouthed back, and then grinned. but i've always wondered.
ok, maybe it wasn't hemingway. maybe. but, i don't know. maybe he missed the ghost trains and hopped on ours instead.
for example, the metro signs. i like to tell him how long we have to wait for a car of what length as soon as it is in sight in the morning - knowing full well that he won't be able to read it until we're less than twenty feet from the sign. it's my little passive aggressive wife thing, and i'm sure he doesn't notice and it's getting me no closer to having a wildly hot husband who also wears glasses. (i like glasses.) nonetheless.
this morning was no different. as we scooted past the lost retired tourists and the sign came into the sight just before we stepped on the escalator, i chirped, ooh! an eight car train! in three minutes! perfect!
we hustled down to the front of the platform, b pointed out the schmoe wearing a black shirt and brown shoes. you could blog about that guy! what the hell is he wearing? (god i love this man.) a train came and went in the other direction, and suddenly b said, hey, i thought you said the train was in three minutes. i looked over to the sign and imagine my surprise. it said our train was boarding. curious, seeing as how there was no train and all. so the invisible train came and went, the platform quickly filling, and we waited for the next train. that train also arrived, boarded and left (according to the sign) with no actual train. the only logical explanation was that, of course, somehow time and space had intersected, and the metro was invisible, full of ghosts. a ghost train. obviously.
but the third time was a charm. as we got on the train, i couldn't help but wonder if we'd be transported to the great beyond instead of foggy bottom. and things seemed normal, until i made a face at bob about the big old man behind me who kept bumping into me with his gut. then, after he looked at the fellow, his eyes got really big. he leaned in as close as possible and whispered in my ear, oh my god! it's hemingway! and i couldn't get a good look - all i could see was the book in his huge hands. what's he reading? i mouthed to b. i can't tell, he mouthed back, and then grinned. but i've always wondered.
ok, maybe it wasn't hemingway. maybe. but, i don't know. maybe he missed the ghost trains and hopped on ours instead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
