Craving Creamsicles

I almost couldn't believe my ears.

I was walking home from the metro after checking out the new Columbia Heights Target (it's pretty good, I guess, two stories and all, but let's be honest -- it's no Van Nuys) when I heard something curious. An unoffensive tinkly bell melody playing "Do Your Ears Hang Low," of all things. It was so nostalgically familiar, and yet for a few seconds I still struggled to place it.

And then it hit me. This was the unmistakable siren song of the old-school ice cream truck. You know, the kind that drove around our neighborhoods when we were little, doling out classic treats with which to cool off. The kind that made its appearance only during the hauntingly beautiful dusk hours of California summers, when the sun dropped below the hills and the suburbs were bathed in dusty lavender hues; a light that still warms me all the way through because, for an hour a day, it makes the world look just right.

I started to crave something cold and sweet, but not the dulce de leche sundae cups or SpongeBob-shaped popsicles or double chocolate ice cream bars with bittersweet chips and pomegranate ribbons that seem to be so in vogue these days. This craving was simpler, the kind of thing I'd always order from the snack bar at the JCC's pool -- old-fashioned delights like vanilla ice cream sandwiches, fudge bars, and creamsicles. Maybe a drumstick, if I was feeling spendy and risqué.

As I stood on 14^th Street SE, salivating at the thought of the unexpectedly dreamy marriage of orange popsicle and sweet vanilla cream, it occurred to me that I didn't even know they still ran ice cream trucks. It's incredibly reassuring to discover that such a symbol of innocence still exists in this sometimes fucked-up world.

...Even if it has turned me into one of Pavlov's dogs.

Biking in Heels

I've been in a much more positive mood lately. Must be the almost palpable approach of spring. I'm trying to let go of my near-constant cloud of negative energy, because really -- what good is it? I'm going to give myself an ulcer or some such.

Yesterday was at least 70 degrees, and it felt just like Los Angeles. It sounds clichéd, but I have very much missed the feel of the sun on my skin. So I dusted off the ol' bike, and rode to work, in a skirt and heels, no less.

You know, it's funny. I very rarely get catcalled when I'm walking around the city, no matter how fly I look. But the second I get on my bike, guys are hollering at me from every angle. I'm not sure what it is about cute girls on bikes that drives men completely bananas. Is it that I'm straddling something in public? Is it that I'm sweating? Or breathing heavily? Maybe it's all of the above. But especially when I bike in skirts, DC males turn into sailors on leave.

On my way home last night, I was stopped at a red light on E Street, and this group of teenagers was crossing in front of me, one of them singing "Low" by Flo Rida. I laughed at his antics. After they crossed, they turned right to head up the street on which I was stopped. He took a sideways glance at me, then turned to his friends with much fanfare, and shouted "Yo, this girl's ridin' a bike IN HEELS!!" One of his female friends replied "Wow, that takes talent."

Biking in heels isn't as hard as it sounds. Although, it is a much better workout, as it requires a specific subset of leg muscles. The Mad Hipster always told me I should be riding with the balls of my feet on the peddles, but I always get lazy and ride with my arches, which is completely poor bike decorum. But high heels offer such a conservative surface area for the peddles that I am forced to ride correctly.

So here's to sunshine and toned thighs. Here's to cute girls on bikes, peddling in heels. But most importantly, here's to spring.

Bring it on.

Letting Go

I've been mildly irritated with Tweedle Fun. She's my little baby bird, my protégé if you will. Our friendship began on a fateful July roadtrip; me, a new college grad, and her, a soon-to-be sophomore. Crazy, in a fun way; her face lights up when she talks -- which is almost painfully often, and usually about sports. You know, the kind of girl who can drive to the Alexandria Target with her boyfriend's roommates and end up in Nashville instead, just because she can (true story). The kind of girl who could tell you said story without you being the least bit surprised.

She always said she moved out to DC because of me, a fact I always denied, as it's a fairly strong statement at 3,000 miles. But I've started to believe it. Although her desire to come to DC was her own, she was only able to make such a scary life change because someone was here to welcome her with open arms. On my birthday of last year, she professed her undying and unconditional love for me. And I didn't doubt it for one second. She's my girl.

She was joined to my hip when she first moved, but lately she's been blowing me off. At first I chalked it up to the near-fatal Finds A Boyfriend, Starts Ignoring Me syndrome. After all, I've lost many a good girlfriend to FABSIM. And I let that slide, just for her, because I really like the boyfriend -- he's a good guy, and I can tell he's way into the relationship just based on the way he looks at her. To be honest, I'd love for someone to look at me like that.

But after eating brunch with her this afternoon, I realized it's more than FABSIM. It's that she's finally found her niche. A cute rowhouse with fun roommates, a solid group of friends who accompany her on spur-of-the-moment midnight Tennessee roadtrips, a job she really cares about, and a city that she's making her own.

And really, that's all I ever wanted for her, to help her get started and then let go once that niche had been found. But being a role model is tough, and this is a bittersweet victory for me, as I feel like she no longer needs me. And now I realize that it truly is time to man up and let her go.

So fly, little birdie. Make mama proud.

Saving Daylight

Most people hate Spring Forward. I suppose because it causes you to "lose" an hour of sleep. But I don't see it that way. That hour isn't lost, it's just replaced with daylight that lasts until after I'm home from work, and the hope that spring really must be just around the corner. A few weeks ago, several days after Spring Forward, it dawned on me as I exited the Potomac Ave metro station that it was still light outside. And I smiled to myself as I walked home.

Along with the extra hours of sunlight, the promise of spring has brought with it the reignited desire to be social. This past Friday night, the Caterpillar and I accompanied the Queen of Clubs to latino night at a gay club way up in NE. Only a year out of the closet, the Queen of Clubs is a Southern Baptist with token expressions like "Lord, I apologize," "Bless her heart," and my personal favorite (and his solution to all of my problems), "Let's drink about it!" He's adorable and funny, like most gay men, and oddly proud of finally being a part of an oppressed minority. A fashionable dresser and a surprisingly good hip-hop dancer. One of those good catches that causes lonely single girls to declare what a tragic shame it is that he happens to enjoy kissing other boys. If I had a dollar for every person that mistakenly thought he and I were a couple, I'd quit my job.

He was able to lure me, lover of gay men and total lush, to this particular club with the promise of $3 jaeger shots; for the Caterpillar (lover of latino men and quasi-chola), the lure was gratuitous reggaeton. Even our skittish taxi driver couldn't sway us.

"New York Avenue, NE please."

"Do you know where that is? You don't want to walk around up there, there are a lot of shootings. You all are going to get shot. Don't count on catching a taxi home, we don't like to hang around up there..."

We attempted to assuage his fears by reassuring him we were not heading up to NE to take a midnight stroll. After all, we were asking to be dropped off at the front door of a club, dressed to the nines (the Caterpillar and I each wearing four-inch pumps). We arrived, the Queen of Clubs declaring, "I LOVE you! You are workin' it in those heels!" I winked at him. A girl can't hear that enough... even if it's solely from straight women and gay guys. There's just no ego boost quite like wearing stilettos to a gay club.

And after several rounds of shots, plenty of dancing, a drag show, and the hilarity of two beefy, scantily clad men dancing on boxes (one of whom was coming out of his hot pants, the other of whom was... ahem... fairly excited to be there), it was time to call it an evening.

We hailed a taxi just fine.

Flirting Shamelessly

Sometimes it amazes me that women really look out for each other. Even total strangers. The female race is one giant sorority whose sisters have unfairly earned a reputation for being catty bitches towards each other (mainly, I think, due to reality TV). But every once in a while, I get the feeling that those sisters are all just kindred spirits. ...Okay, so that feeling probably makes me a total pollyanna, but it also makes me grateful to belong to the gentler sex.

Today was Cheshire Kitty's birthday. And since she and the boy are still on the rocks (I won't even go into that, as the status changes what seems like hourly), she decided she'd rather have me join her for her birthday dinner reservation at hyper-masculine, protein-fueled, not-for-the-faint-of-appetite Brazilian churrascaria, Fogo de Chão.

Enter our waiter. I recount the following with the full understanding that it will read like a bad St. Patrick's Day cliché, but we had what has to be the cutest Irish waiter this side of the Emerald Isle. And I've yet to meet a woman who wouldn't melt at the sound of a delightful Irish accent, especially one attached to a wine-plying waiter who flirted shamelessly with Cheshire Kitty, even winking at her without a hint of outdated irony. He offered to help us select a wine, describing South American cabernets in a brogue that truly should be illegal.

"Wow. If I were a guy, I would not be able to stand up right now," declared Cheshire Kitty, as soon as he left to find our wine selection.

And after half a bottle each of said Argentinian red, plus after-dinner drinks and about two pounds of red meat each, I encouraged her to give him her phone number. But she hesitated, saying that she still didn't know what was happening with the boy. Commendable, I thought, and I backed off.

But she still wondered his name, imagining it to be some Guinness-soaked stereotype like Seamus, but insatiably curious nonetheless. On our way out the door after what was a truly memorable (albeit pricey) meal, she stopped at the hostess stand.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be forward," Cheshire Kitty offered, "but we had a wonderful server and I'm curious to know his name. Tall, heavy Irish accent..."

"His name's Daniel," replied the pretty Brazilian hostess. "And I don't mean to be forward, but..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "...I wouldn't recommend."

"I'm sorry?" said Cheshire Kitty.

The hostess paused again but repeated the same words, emphasizing them carefully. "I would not recommend." Then she smiled.

"I see," said Cheshire Kitty. "Thank you... thanks very much." And we took leave of the steakhouse, heading towards the metro.

It was so simple. A cryptic warning against a smoking-hot yet presumably womanizing Irishman with an accent that must drop panties on a regular basis, issued by a woman who had nothing to gain by telling us so. And I thought about how sweet the gesture was, in this modern world where women are thought to be two-faced, backstabbing bitches and hos. A world in which strangers sell each other down the river for iPhones and off-street parking.

Kind of boosts my faith in womankind. But it also shows me just how magnetic cute, international strangers with exotic accents can be in foreign cities.

...Maybe I should move to Dublin.

Breaking Piñatas

I'll be honest. I love any occasion during which society allows you to drink tequila at 3 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Does that make me a lush? Best not to think about that now.

How I ended up with a group of DC friends (six in total) who all have March birthdays is beyond me. I'm the only non-Marcher in our whole group; a lonely Scorpio with a penchant for Halloween parties, wigs, and cupcakes dressed up as gravestones. But March is a bitch. No longer winter but not yet spring, it creeps up and bites me, leaving me to wonder where February went and how I'll ever find perfect gifts for six in a matter of just a few short weeks.

We now have a heavy contender for the best birthday party ever -- the Caterpillar's fête was this afternoon. Inquisitive and wise beyond her (almost) 24 years, she refuses to take any crap from anyone, and, yes, she owns a hookah. But she's also from Irvine, California. A white girl in a world of cholas who still gets hollered at by latinos on a daily basis. And undeniably loves it.

And so, at her request, we all gathered at our house today to celebrate the momentous anniversary of her birth. An east Los Angeles-themed fiesta complete with a Dora the Explorer motif, a Tootsie-Roll- and lollipop-filled piñata, carne asada, homemade salsa concocted free-hand by the Caterpillar herself, and ever-flowing margaritas. She's a freaking genius.

When I was little, I used to hate piñatas. Especially when the adults spun you excessively and pulled the rope just beyond your reach right when you decided to swing. To a kid, that seems cruel. But you know what? After several decades of (supposedly) maturing, piñata is back. I don't remember it being so goddamned fun. Maybe because at this point, I'm used to good things being just out of my reach while I spin blindly and try desperately to come out swinging.

And perhaps this was just what I needed. A little bit of the afternoon-drunk, vanilla cake procured from some random Mt. Pleasant bakery where a certain level of Spanish fluency is required to place your order, and some good old-fashioned, completely juvenile fun involving a bike-polo mallet as the only thing standing between me and a well-deserved sugar coma. I think, perhaps, my months of hermitage are finally and thankfully coming to an end.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm back.

Sitting Shiva

"Have you ever been to that place, Loeb's Deli?" he asked, pointing out the window of our #34 metrobus at some McPherson Square eatery.

"No, is it any good?"

"It's New York Style. We're going."

He's in DC for nine short days, the first close guy friend I ever made. I met him in college in 2004, my senior year to his freshman. Ladies' man extraordinaire; my emotional rock during my unfortunate Sobbing Mess phase. Gives the tightest, most comforting hugs. Skanky fratboy with a heart of gold.

There are few things in life that I love more than a good NY-Style deli, so his choice took absolutely no persuasion. Work wasn't expecting me until 2pm, so after a lazy morning of making surprise cupcakes for the Queen of Hearts' 25^th birthday, he and I hopped on a Blue Line train due west.

Gray days are known culprits for impressing upon me an unwarranted sense of melancholy.

We arrived, and I was amazed to find that their menu is a virtual plethora of Manhattanite delights -- matzo ball soup, knishes, kosher dogs, and deli sandwiches that feature nothing but glistening, marbled cuts of meat, piled high as the sky.

But just two bites into my heavenly pastrami on rye, the melancholy began to persist. Like gravity, if gravity was a weight that, instead of pulling you down, pushed. And it hit me that this innocent, meaty sandwich was forcefully reminding me of my grandfather's funeral.

I looked at him across the table and, blinking back the tears that I could not have seen coming, I vainly attempted not to think about how powerfully proud my grandfather would have been to see me now, an independent woman working for an organization that fights tooth-and-nail for civil rights. I tuned back in to my dear friend and tried desperately to focus on the words escaping from his mouth. He was talking about law school, and I was catching few words.

"Georgetown... waitlisted... ranked 13^th, not bad... asked what kind of law I wanted to study... metro to Union Station... go out tonight?..."

It was then that I realized the rub. That this wasn't an isolated incident, to come and go and not to be thought of again. Instead, corned beef and kosher pickles would, from this point forward, always remind me of that weekend; of sitting shiva on the upper west side. Of the bittersweetness of seeing the family all together while simultaneously lamenting the reason for our strained assembly. Of placating our grief with tongue sandwiches on pumpernickel, and cinnamon rugelach, and whitefish salad on onion bialys.

If ever there was someone who would listen and understand, it would be him. He was, after all, my emotional rock. But his face was alight with the excitement of knowing about a gem in my own city that even I hadn't yet found, and of being the one to take me. And he waxed poetic about how this deli should be "our place."

"Don't ever take anyone else here," he said, throwing me his cute, trademarked grin. "...Or at least, not any guys you're interested in."

Don't worry, I thought, washing down the lump in my throat with a decent amount of Dr. Brown's Cream Soda.

I won't.