Travel log iv: check point

12 August 2009

My faith in our Nation's security is secure.

Today I won the airport security lottery, and they invited me to step into the great x-ray cylinder. When the officer dully asked if I had anything in my pockets, I foolishly assumed he was referring to anything dangerous so I said "Nothing."

The plexiglas doors turned closed with a sucking sound and the words "Beam me up Soctty!" had barely crossed my mind before the x-ray arm had spun around, the doors had opened, and the guard was inviting me out to explain how my x-ray was being reviewed in the other room.

A woman's voice crackled on his radio, "What's in her right pocket?"

I fished out an empty sandwich bag and a paperclip.

Oops.

I pulled my most remorseful hand-in-the-cookie-jar face and the officer sneered-- or was that a chuckle?

"She saw that in your pocket."

Obviously a triumph for the BWI Airport Security.

Which makes me wonder how the woman now waiting across from me made it through with her quilting and sewing bag- pins and needles and all.

Retail Therapy

09 August 2009

I bought my very first ever purse today. And let me tell you why:

This morning I woke up and pulled on my new cream sweater, a cable knit American Eagle knock off I found on a Marshalls' junior rack, which means it was a ridiculously good deal. I wore it over a scoop-neck-tee with a funky print reminiscent of Middle Eastern art in off-white and taupe. Of course, I wore my favorite dark jeans, and rounded the whole thing off with chocolate ballet flats from the Gap.

But unfortunately my carryall bag/feminine briefcase is black.

And you cannot hold your head high and cary a black bag in brown shoes.

Had I still been living with my 10, 7, and 3 year old Kusinen, I could have perhaps found an appropriate clutch in their dress-ups, maybe something purple or sequined in gold. But they had left for Utah, and I had moved into a house full of boys. So no luck there.

I took the black bag-- I had no other choice, but on my way home, I visited my favorite thrift store and bought a real, genuine red purse. Of course while I was there, I had to find a couple more things that go with Red; some new sweaters, and a couple pair of grey and black shoes.

And to think I used to hate shopping!

Pursuit of Happiness II

26 July 2009

1.
On a whim, I bought fake nails from CVS. They were "Real Life! Petits"-- not too ostentatious, but simple and feminine and the kind you glue on with a little tube of superglue. Cheap but not too tacky. I think someday in the distant future I will be horrified that I superglued little plastic nails onto my own fingertips, but today I love them! I love looking down to see the tan of my hands highlighted by my glossy nails, and I love handing things to people, palm down, fingers obvious, my french tips glowing with femininity.

2.
We stopped at Five Guys for dinner on Friday. I was hungry and the group was obliging. Of course I ordered a Bacon Cheeseburger. And also a large fries to keep my friends from just sitting and watching me eat. 'Eat' is really too tame a word to describe the thrilling experience of smelling and tasting and chewing the best Bacon Cheeseburger I have ever had. The fries were sub par, but the burger-- c'était incroyable!

Bikes on Shoulder

03 July 2009

This title conjures up images of conquering bikers, hoisting their rides in many triumph-- an REI poster. I say manly because actually having that two wheeled hunk of pipes over your head would be a manly feat regardless of the gender of the hoister.

This title however, refers to the traffic signs posted along Maryland 4 warning drivers to share the road with bikers... like me.

I think the trip was Jason's idea, and from the start I wanted in. Of course with a couple of college kids running the show, things were a bit haphazardly thrown together, and we had a bit of a rocky start but at 7:30 we corralled our bikes behind the Barlow Center, said a prayer and headed out. Jason, Andrew, Maria and I-- a nice little chain of wheels pedaling through Downtown traffic. In the rain. Did I mention it was pouring? A veritable deluge right down on our parade. But this is normal riding for me, and I couldn't keep myself from laughing out loud as we ducked and tried to avoided the cars, trucks buses and over-sized puddles: the perfect start to our adventure.

And what an adventure it was: I learned to patch a flat and sleep on wet grass, I loitered in a gas station and then a casino, where I was carded for only the 2nd time in my life. We planed to sleep on the Chesapeake beach, but when we rolled into Chesapeake Beach City at 11 p.m., we just parked our bikes on the first bit of grass we found-- the Chesapeake Beach Veterans Memorial Park. Behind some privet bushes we found a nice place to sleep-- until the sprinklers came on at 4 a.m. That's when the loitering began.

We finally settled on the rocky shoreline of our Memorial Park to watch the sun rise over the bay. I remember seeing the brightness eating away at the horizon's darkness before I nodded off, hunched on a rock, hugging my knees under my fleece jacket.

Biking home on five hours of sleep was not as difficult as I thought it would be, and I was less sore than I expected, thank goodness. Along the way, we stopped for pictures beside a pastoral field and in front of the White House. Eighty miles after the start, we pulled into the Barlow center parking lot. I for one was sweaty, grimy and ready for a nap.

And so in love with biking.

Eine kleine nachtmusik

01 July 2009

I woke up late this morning, or more correctly, I slept in.

And then I remembered I was having lunch with the president, so I had to get up and iron something presentable. I just grabbed an apple for breakfast, but I was already too late to get a good parking spot, and walking to the metro, I missed the light at every intersection (there were 5 between my parking spot and the East Falls Church Metro). My metro card wouldn't got through (as usual), and as I finally ran up the escalator, I saw my train pull away. The next one (7 minutes later) was overcrowded and had some trouble between Rosslyn and Foggy Bottom. We all waited, squashed together, I hung on to the overhead hand-rail awkwardly, my armpit in some woman's face, someone's briefcase in my back. At each stop we'd all shuffle about to let a few people off, and squeeze together as a twice as many people tried to squeeze on. My stop came, and I had 3 minutes to walk the 3 blocks from Farragut North to the 5th floor of the AEI building, and running up the metro's escalator (in my semi-ironed blouse, pencil skirt and sneakers) I almost missed the music.

An old man, grey curly hair and a great toothy grin, was sitting on a stool, case open, playing Mozart on the violin. His tone was professional, intonation impeccable-- he had no music, but filled the metro and the surrounding block with improvisation on the theme. Cheery, delightful, beautiful.

I caught his eye and grinned. He grinned back and continued to play with gusto.
As I crossed the street at the end of the block, I could still hear: Mozart's Night Music in the DC metro.

Post Script: I ran into the building with another late employee, he looked young enough to be an intern as well. He jabbed the elevator "Up" but just then the doors opened and someone stepped out. We jumped in, and as the doors closed I realized this elevator was going down. I pushed the "5". Nothing happened. He tried the 12th floor. The numbered lights clicked on then went out. The elevator didn't move. We looked at each other and grinned.

"Well, this makes for an interesting start to the day, doesn't it?"

Dictation practice

23 June 2009

Chief Operations Officer pokes head in room-next-door/Temp's office
Temp: What a lovely blue shirt!
COO: It’s green
Temp: No, that’s blue.
COO: No. It’s mint. This shirt is NOT blue.
Temp: I’m pretty sure if we put it to a vote, you would lose.
COO: No! There is yellow in this shirt, for sure, otherwise it wouldn’t be this color.
Temp: Well, in the world of the 8-color crayon box, that is blue.
COO: No, it’s green.
Temp: No, you’re wrong.
COO: Fine, we can vote about it, but it's green
Temp: Well, if we voted at staff meeting it would have to be a secret ballot, but I think everyone would agree that it’s blue.
COO walks out. The temp gives a little chuckle.

For the record-- it could be called nothing but robin-egg blue-- perhaps pushing a pastel teal, but I cast my ballot for blue.

True Story.

Sorry Boss.

The neighborhood crab fest

14 June 2009

To this 1,000 word essay, may I suggest a theme?

Eating meat is barbaric. In the context of last night's dinner, discuss.

Delusions of grandeur

10 June 2009

My favorite character flaw is the unyielding faith I have in my ability to do the impossible. For example, there is never doubt n my mind, as I see a frisbee fly overhead, that I can, in fact, jump half my height. I am still always surprised when the frisbee sails far above me into the trees.

So when Josh suggested that I bike to Mount Vernon, I did not hesitate to start planning. How hard could a little serious biking be? It's only 25 miles each way.

Friday I had work off, so I borrowed Ian's mountain bike, pumped up the tires, and headed out, pedaling in a southeasterly direction-- maps are for amateurs. I have complete faith in my ability to navigate by intuition (and well groomed bike trials).

I biked enthusiastically down the W&OD (we locals call it "the wad"), which follows the Four Mile Run River down to the Potomac. Virginia is beautiful and the paved trail was shaded by great overhanging oaks, maples, sycamores and something that looked like beach. I have to write a paper about the whole experience (that's what happens when you take summer college classes) so I pedaled and made up poetic descriptions of the chunky, rugged bike trail and the Pollock-spattering of sunshine that sifted through the trees.

It wasn't until I had stopped for lunch and started home that my legs began to really complain. About mile 30, I started to slow down. I had no idea your legs could cramp from the hips down. Fortunately, there was little time to worry about tired legs- that is when the rain came.

The rain was of that sudden southern-deluge sort that is unexpected and torrential. I wondered for a moment if it were in the bikes best interested to stop and wait it out under a bridge, but I was dripping already and I couldn't see how waiting in the wet was better than wading in the wet, so I just biked and laughed, and looked up towards the sky and opened my mouth wide.

Post Script:
I made it home fine, dirty and muddy and soaking wet, but I couldn't think of a way to better enjoy a free Friday. Next time I'm biking to the Maryland beach. It shouldn't be too much harder-- it's only about 50 miles more.

Bookstore iv: in which i begin again

Reiters Scientific, Professional and Technical Books, on the corner of 20th and K, is quiet and clean and plays string quartet music placidly in the background. Signs on the tables and by the numerous arm chairs encourage patrons to "Please leave the books on the table, we're happy to reshelve them for you."

In one corner, a young guy played with the brain puzzles on display next to the rack of math T-shirts (a cute atomic couple labeled "Carbon dating-- double bonded for half life," and a large and complex math equation labeled "Weapon of math instruction").

I wandered through the biology and physics shelves, through biomedical engineering and classics in mathematics. At one small tea table an elderly and very distinguished gentleman was bent over a tome of a book: Textbook of Cardiovascular Medicine, 3rd Revised ed..

I noticed a book on the display table: light brown, a nice weight and comfortably proportioned, with a large, glossy but colorless pirate's hook printed across the front, The Invisible Hook. For Christian's sake I picked it up.

I have now decided the economic section is my new favorite wing of the bookstore. Do you know the difference between a buccaneer, a privateer and a corporate businessman?

I tell you when I finish the book.

Bookstore iii: review

06 June 2009

I cannot say I found Fahrenheit 451entirely disappointing, but it left something wanting. Bradbury is known for his short stories, which is a credit to him. It takes a true craftsman to gracefully condense the whole plot diagram into under 200 pages. But I felt that this form did not serve Bradbury well in this case.

True, he presented a stirring and shocking train of what-if events and his character Montag was an effective every man and he was shockingly spot on with some predictions, like the ubiquitous sea shell ear pieces that isolate each person in their own world of music. But I was disappointed that Bradbury barely touched on such themes as the implications of a nearing-illiterate society, or of a society that is devoted entirely to preparations for war.

In 100 pages he barely touches the surface of Montag's character and I felt little connection to the other main actors in the story.

On the other hand, the depth of social commentary I so wished for was obviously not the authors intent. And, in true Bradbury fashion, this book did leave me thoughtful and a little afraid about what we are doing today to our future.

Eau de la ville

03 June 2009

The city smells like three brands of cigarettes: two cheap and three foul. The metro stops at Farragut West has a hot rubber and machinery smell that seeps up the escalators and mixes with the street vendor's smells of mustard and frying oil.

Early in the day 17th street, the 1100's block, is breakfast sausage and diesel fuel that powers the fleets of delivery vans. I walk by as a guard holds open a double glass door: cold air and cologne-- the sweet smell of corporate lobby. My office is strong coffee and overly-conditioned air, a stiff combination that has come to mean answering phones and computer screens and over-worked human.

The people in the streets are a patchwork of perfume, deodorant and humid sweat. Some wear their cigarette smoke like a great billowing cape. Others swagger by and I pause to breath and remember who else wears that aftershave.

And 'midst it all, folded in, the city is saturated with that beautiful sweet smell of Southern Summer. The humid wet that clings to the trees and grass of Farragut Park and clings to me as I walk by, reminding me of summers at the beach.

On the corner of 18th and F, I pause, here the air is not quite my sister's favorite perfume and not quite my childhood's honeysuckle bushes but somehow such a fervent sweet and delicate smell, rich and sophisticated; I pretend to scrutinize the newspaper stands as if the sight of so many headlines has made me short of breath-- I breathe deeply and fill my lungs with my favorite D.C. air. Perhaps it's the row of ornamental magnolias or some rich and famous eau de parfum connoisseur who leaves her windows thrown open just there. But now I have read all the headlines twice through, so I continue my walk down 18th street, breathing in the lovely sunshine.

Bookstore ii: classic

02 June 2009

They blast the most awful music at this bookstore. Today the basement music wasn't too bad, just too loud, and really I can only take a chance on ABBA for so long. So I wandered about in search of a more quiet department.

I found the perfect spot- on a bench between rows of pink and purple paperbacks- and enjoyed my book-burning-SciFi-horror-classic to Vivaldi's "Winter." That piece, I believe, is the perfect soundtrack for the "heaving bosoms and ripped bodices" of the schlocky romance section.

Extreme makeover

22 May 2009

As you may imagine, for a girl who doesn't even shave her legs, getting my hair cut was a dramatic experience. Just ask David, my co-intern, who had to sit through a week of my shall-I-shan't-I before I got up the courage to do the deed. But it was really time I did something with that mop of split ends wigging out on top of my head.* On Wednesday, I arranged to take a long lunch, and the last words I said to David as I headed out to The Hair Shoppe were, "If I come back with long hair, DON'T SAY ANYTHING."

I haven't actually had my hair professionally cut since I was 12, and I had forgotten what a horrifying place the salon is. In case you too have forgotten, let me remind you: They plunk you down in that giant chair and tie your arms down under an enormous black cape. The Hairdresser comes in with an apron full of instruments of torture: combs with blades between the teeth, buzzers, razors, and all manner of sharp, pointy scissors. She grabbed my pony tail and I hear that shzzzzcK! of scissors on hair. Wagging the lopped off thing in front of my face she joked, "Too bad! Someone could have used that!"

I just closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, Too late to do anything now.

I think the best part of a dramatic haircut is the shocking response it draws from everyone who has to double-take as you walk in the room.

Monica and Rachel were the first to notice, and they exclaimed over my pluck and daring. My boss met me as I walked back to my computer and nearly began to introduce herself to "the new intern."

Of course, there's the chance no one will notice because they won't even recognize you. Four people recognized me at class the next day, my professor was not among them, and he gave me the strangest look as I sat down confidently at the front of his class.

Cait says I look like a model; that's what friends are for!

I believe I'm still recovering from the shock of really cutting it all off, but I think I like it.

And now, the new me:

*Puns are always intended.

Bookstore

21 May 2009

My new favorite section in the book store is the reference/trivia shelves. I discovered the Borders on 18th and L one morning as I walked to my office building, and it has become my favorite place to spend my free time in the city before work at 9:30.

I was actually looking for a book on the history of the OED, but this Borders is small or maybe the book is unpopular, anyway, it was out of stock, so I just perused the shelves- Change the World for Ten Bucks, Luck: The Essential Guide, and The Mental Floss History of the World: An Irreverent Romp Through Civilization’s Best Bits.

In the end, I actually wandered down stairs to the border of SciFi and Horror- right where Ray Bradbury belongs. I have always wanted to read Fahrenheit 451. And they're kind enough to provide coushy chairs.

At the water cooler

I work in a real office. In fact, as I pledged the furniture in the directors office (oh, the high and mighty work of the revered intern), I noticed that if I sat in the chair next to the interior window, it would look like one of those close up interview shots from The Office. Exactly like The Office. We don't quite have the caricatures that JB Novak dreamed up, but, from where I sit, there does seem to be an endless supply of the ridiculousness here.

The director of IT walked past my desk the other day, "Did you know I have gills. I do. That's why I wear collared shirts."
I wonder what he felt about the Lox wraps they served in the board room for lunch.

Suzie and David swapped music pirating sites over lunch, and when I rolled my eyes David offered, "We'd be more than happy to share the joys of piracy with you if you are ready to welcome them into your heart."
Seriously. Those were his exact words.

Also, David has recently coined the term "The Mallory Effect" in which I rub off on other people and they start spewing non-sequiturs at passing coworkers.

Apparently my propensity for office ADD is manifest in a running commentary, but at least my comments make sense most of the time.

Today Brian walked in carrying a slightly frosty desktop hard drive.
"Found it! Forgot I stuck this thing in the freezer last month."

Out to lunch

05 May 2009

I sat next to Roy R. Romer today at lunch. He looks much older now than in his Wikipedia picture, but that didn't stop all the important people in the Capital Hilton Congress Room from coming up to say hello. He didn't actually introduce himself to me, he only asked what I did and, no doubt trying to be genuinely conversational, asked this and that about TPR. But I knew who he was because Checker (who's real name is Chester E. Finn Jr.) gave a shout-out from the podium to his old friend Roy, and someone stopped by to congratulated him on his son's becoming another Senator Romer.

Roy R. Romer, by the way, was a congressman, a senator, the 39th governor of Colorado, the superintendent of Los Angeles' Schools, he has a school named after him in the San Fernando valley, and now he serves as the chairman and lead spokesman for Strong American Schools, currently funded by the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and the Eli and Edythe Broad foundation, which is an initiative aimed at encouraging politicians to include education reform in their platforms.

But really, sitting next to Roy was nothing, I was in fact sitting in front of Checker the whole time, who was formerly the United States Assistant Secretary of Education and currently the president of the Thomas B. Fordham Foundation, who provided the luncheon.

I was there just to take notes on the speakers, but since the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation had been so kind as to provide the delicious and expensive box lunches, I helped my self to a grilled vegetable on tomato focaccia sandwich.

NOTE: Roy R. Romer eats his chocolate brownie with a fork, which is a much more sophisticated way of doing it, especially at a luncheon full of DC's leading lights in the field of education reform. I felt foolish for trying to eat it with my bare hands.

The intern

04 May 2009

(in all her glory)

I stopped on my way out of the office to switch from business pumps to my favorite tennis shoes. Leaning against the water fountain I noticed a sign on the door opposite: "Stairwell." Stairs! Why have I been riding the elevator every day! I slipped through the heavy door and heard it clunck shut as I skipped down the five flights to the ground floor, which is where I found a very nasty-looking metal grate of a door with "Fire Exit Only" painted in large and unfriendly letters. An addendum was stamped beneath: "Alarm will Sound."

Hm.

I ran back up a level to floor 2 and rattled the door knob. Locked.

So was the next door and the next and the next.

Back on the fifth floor, I considered sitting down to think or maybe cry. Then, as I so often do when I'm in need of a bit of cheer, I thought What would Vernon do? and I saw him in my mind's eye doubled over, piddling-- yes, in fact piddling-- at the hilarity of my situation: It was my first week of work and I was locked in the stairwell of 1150 17th Street in Washington, DC.

I swallowed what little pride I had still intact (after a week of interning) and called the office. (Thank heavens I had cell phone reception in that concrete pit.)

"Philanthropy Roundtable, this is Lindsay."

"Hi. This is the intern. I'm locked in the stairwell, could you come let me out."

Bless Lindsay for not laughing while I was still on the line, "Sure, where's the stairwell?"

"Just outside our office, next to the drinking fountain."

"I'll be right there."

She didn't even crack a smile as she pulled the heavy door open, "I think this happens in a lot of DC office buildings-- the doors only open if the fire alarm goes off. I think Lacey locked herself in here too her first week. She's the sort of girl who would try to take the stairs."

I mumbled something about avoiding a fire drill, tried to chuckle and ran for the elevator.

Well, as my boss Stephanie has been reminding me all week-- I am an intern; I can only go up from here.

From my shrinking world

29 April 2009

I walked into my first staff meeting Tuesday, and sat across from a pretty blond, "Hi, I'm Lacey!"
Lacey?
"From Missouri?"
"Ahm. yes."
"Lacey. Hm. We were 8th grade locker partners."
"Woah. Wow. Yeah, we were! How are you?"
We're having lunch tomorrow to catch up on the six years since we shared a tiny upper locker in Jeff. Jr. High.