Finishing Quests

Haha! So, my Pimm's quest did not present the challenge I was expecting.

Apparently, the third store's a charm. I have located Pimm's #1 this side of the pond, and it resides (among other shops, presumably) at a wine and spirits shop called Best In Liquors right next to the Logan Circle Whole Foods (1450 P Street NW). The clerk was very sweet and didn't look at me like I was a total whack-job upon hearing my request, which is always a plus in my book, but rather pointed to the shelves behind me and then seemed pleased that I was pleased.

This was especially reassuring after a fairly rough morning. Engrossed in my magazine, I apparently sailed right past Farragut West on my way to work. I decided to look up from my reading material to check the train's progress, which usually puts me approximately at L'Enfant Plaza or Smithsonian -- and I was shocked to see the words "Foggy Bottom/GWU" on the station wall. Right as the doors were closing, of course.

Good morning, Virginia!

I then realized I forgot to put on deodorant before leaving the house, which was excellent. I stopped at CVS after finally arriving at Farragut West. Cheshire Kitty accurately assigned this the lolcat status of "major morning fail."

I thought things were looking up after heading to Whole Foods to buy shave gel, which I unexpectedly ran out of on Tuesday night (for those keeping score, this would be Fail #394), forcing the resourceful minx that I am to use hair conditioner in its place. I decided to pop into Best In Liquors, ignoring the overwhelming feeling of sketchiness that can only be attained by a classy lunchtime stop at the local liquor store.

And voila! Pimm's! Perhaps this day is turning around! I thought, foolishly. That's when I went to slyly adjust my strapless bra and discovered that I had twisted one of the cups several times before securing the hooks, leaving twisty evidence of my ineptness at life right down my top.

Sigh... FAIL.

Beginning Quests

The British have given us a lot.

Jane Austen, the Clash, Jason Statham, Eddie Izzard. Fine cinema, the likes of which often feature middle-aged women who resort to growing weed, middle-aged men who resort to stripping, or introverted shoe manufacturers who resort to creating stripper heels specially for drag queens. A Queen who drinks beer, for shit's sake. They cracked open the genius brain of J.K. Rowling and let the sweet, sweet innards spill out onto more than four thousand pages that now sit in the laps of every addicted man, woman, and child in America. And, let's face it -- they birthed our fine country, even though we morphed into bratty teenagers and gave them the ultimate "Fuck You" back in 1776.

Lastly, and the reason for this post: while not particularly known for their culture's gastronomic delights, the British are responsible for the popularity of gin, for which I am eternally grateful. Beyond that, they are responsible for one of my very favorite "Drink Me" bottles, Pimm's #1. Mystery elixir tasting of spice and sophistication.

Margaritas are all well and good, and mojitos are still enjoying their much-deserved fifteen minutes. And anyone who knows me well knows that I've yet to meet a sangria I didn't like. But in my mind, there exists no summer cocktail so elegant, so refreshing, so delightfully British, as the Pimm's Cup. All recipes rely on various combinations of Pimm's #1, lemonade and/or ginger ale, garnished with sliced lemons, limes, and cucumbers (cucumbers! genius!). So exquisite is the Pimm's Cup that it makes me feel delicate and ladylike... and perhaps a bit like I shouldn't be giggling at the Cockfosters tube station.

I have thus begun a quest, to locate myself a bottle of Pimm's #1 for sale somewhere in the DC metro area. My first two stops were unsuccessful, but I have high hopes. As Tweedle Wit pointed out just this evening, I could always resort to calling the British embassy and asking for suggestions. If it comes to that, I just might.

To conclude tonight's post, I have composed a haiku in honor of my dearest (yet elusive) summer cocktail:

Oh, Pimm's #1
Enigma of citrus spice
Cucumber garnish

...heh heh... Cockfosters.

Being Choosy

Nerds are hot.

Cheshire Kitty once told me she's glad I'm choosy about boys. See, my rationale goes like this: I like me. Sure, being single can be lonely, but ultimately I'd rather spend time by my rad self than be with someone just for the sake of not being alone. Being choosy makes my crushes (rare as they may be) actually mean something. Flighty's just not my style.

I also happen to have a penchant for nerdy boys. Seriously. Tan, muscled jocks don't do it for me. Collar-popping prepsters can walk their Top-Siders on by. But give me a funny, skinny, freckly, nice Jewish boy who rocks rectangular plastic glasses, and you've got yourself a deal. Excited about the new Batman movie? Go ahead and geek out. Like discussing NPR? Ohhh, yeah, talk nerdy to me!

Remember in high school, when being a serious nerd was a detriment to one's social life? Now boys are embracing their plastic glasses and their bikes and their slim builds with reckless abandon; they're realizing it's hip to be smart; they're admitting that the reason they're so good at Rock Band is because that year they lived with their parents, it's all they did. It's endearing. And real.

Take note, boys. Geek is chic.

Losing Shoes

I've never truly understood how there are so many single shoes lining the shoulders of California's highways.

What on earth is happening in cars passing by? I like to imagine that there's some sort of entertaining or scandalous explanation, ignoring the more likely reason of siblings getting revenge or frat boys being jackasses.

I always hope that the offending shoe has been kicked off in a trashy Journey- and Redbull-fueled roadtrip frenzy, In-N-Out wrappers littering the Civic floor. Or that it was sacrificed to the interstate gods as a result of some kind of tricky, 85mph vehicular sex act. Or, better yet, that it was hurled from an unmarked van by a kidnap victim; a previously agreed-upon signal to one's family and friends. Like some kind of unholy, footwear-related Amber Alert replacement.

Actually that's not a bad idea:

"If I go missing, check the sides of highway 5 for my well-worn pair of size-7 Rainbows. You'll know you're on the right track. Left means I'm unhurt; right means trouble..."

A few weeks ago, in search of caffeine, I left my office for the Starbucks at 18^th and N. I was half a block away when I noticed something unusual in the bushes next to an ordinary-looking office building. It was a pair of jeans.

This set off a slew of questions in my head. Could the jeans have been left for the wearer to collect upon his return from whatever jaunt caused them to be discarded? Or were they cast aside after the realization that the events of the impending evening no longer required pants? Has it become socially acceptable to remove one's pants in public and toss them into the bushes?

And if so -- why didn't anyone tell me?