my day, starring me

I unfortunately have both strep throat and a job. This unpleasant coincidence meant that I left the office shortly upon arrival and worked the rest of the day from home. The arrangement worked well for everyone. I could hop in a cold shower every time my fever spiked... and my coworkers weren't reminded that I had totally exposed them to nasty germs all last week. (In my defense, I didn't know! Well, I knew that I felt like crap... but we had a uber-big project, so it didn't pay to find out just how crappy.) Point being, they were happy to see me leave today, despite the VP assuring them that I was no longer very contagious.

I exaggerate my pariah status slightly. See, someone had to be at the office at 7am today and I was the lucky volunteer. I figured strep or not, that no one was going to be too thrilled to finish off their three-day weekend with an early arrival at work. And yes, they were all quite happy that I hadn't passed off the joy to them.

And now, having completed the perilous journey to the Italian deli, I gelato into a pleasant feverish coma and bid all farewell.

running forward

There is a story in my head. Reasonable, excusable, tough as nails. I'm proud of this story in my head. I'm happy with this story. How compelling yet unchallenging it always remains. Why would I want it to be true? Truth defeats the entire point.

I wish more of it were true. Because then, maybe, I'd be able to pretend a little longer. Maybe then it would be ok. Maybe then I wouldn't notice my choice. Just a little while more. In a second. In a minute. In a sometime else.

So, story in my head, you said what you had to. You did what you had to. Now leave.

its paint your man-hole day

Crystal City, you sure are the class act of sidewalk maintenance.

well put

"The only lesson to be drawn from utopian dreaming is that all utopias are
hells. All attempts to design society by reference to one narrow conception
of human nature, whether on paper or in the streets, end in producing
something much worse."
Matt Ridley in Nature via Nurture

a la mode

The moment I realize that my pecuniary challenges are friendlier than believed: When a credit card listing my name escapes its leather binds and disposes $600 into the Annapolis economy.

The moment I realize that I have pleasantly arrived at the dreaded pasturelands of paupery: 120 seconds later.

aren't i clever

I think a clock radio would be a nice addition to my few square feet of daytime reign. Not only would a second alarm clock serve the useful purpose of irritating my neighbors, a radio would allow me to listen to NPR to my hearts content.

NPR is a truly wonderful and addictive thing. 1) You feel so much smarter just listening to it, regardless of whether you understand or are paying attention; 2) unlike C-SPAN you actually can pay attention on occasion; 3) working "I heard a very interesting story this morning on NPR" into any conversation immediately lets everyone know that you are smart. Or fierce. Or a douche.

At least I don't have the tote yet!

playing behind

My dad can't find a punchline. He gets lost so fast in a knock-knock joke that you'd think he was driving through Northern Virginia. Speaking of which, in the time it takes to fly from California to NOVA, board your moon-ship of pedestrian blight at Dulles, and beam back to 1995, it might occur to you that OJ and OJ who? belong between "knock-knock" and "you're on the jury!"

And as you'll realize sometime in the next six words, this sort of thing is inheritable.

confession to a pint glass

We called him 'Biceps' because he had big biceps. We knew this because he had us feel them. And because we had pretended to forget his name.

Near the end of the time spent with good food, un-witty banter, bicep-feeling, and unsuccessful sailor spotting, Rachel had gone off to snag us a table at the after-hours cafe. Meaning: make a private call. In the freedom of relative anonymity, speaking to no one in particular, though presumably to Biceps, “you know I hate ...”

I pause to swallow the medium-amber, pretending it’s a Fat Tire. I have verbalized the forbidden feeling, truth. “Well not hate, but dislike. Dislike that I did well enough on that stupid test, that stupid LSAT, that effn’ law school happened. It’s stupid. That place should burn in one thousand and ninety-six fires.”

A moment of silence. My barstool confession lacks luster and is patently unimpressive. A pretty white girl comfortable enough in life’s amenities, bemoaning fate’s cruel play. The fate that will satiate her with dark wood paneling , fly her first class, install granite countertops in a spacious kitchen, afford luxury vehicles, bring Mediterranean vacations on client yachts. “What sympathy can she, can I expect” I ask to no one in particular, though presumably to the bottom-third of the pint of what I want to be Fat Tire.

I pay up, walk beside the cobbled street, and sit at the table in the café window. Rachel has a pot of tea and a second mug waiting. Sipping hot normalcy, I nearly tell her that I’m absurd. But I don’t. Instead, I say something about sailors. She laughs. The nagging absurdity of me begins to drift away, soon buried in sands of thoughtlessness.

Pretending to tease she asks, “What was that?” Her smirk fails to hide the earnestness.

The words wait an unnatural second. “Nothing,” I murmur. “Just silliness. And sadness.”