Lacking Talent

A few weeks back I had to work late, but I had promised the Caterpillar and Tweedle Wit that I would accompany them to The Red & The Black to see a friend of theirs play in his band.

The band wasn't bad. And the drinks were cheap and strong (just like I like my men... JKLOL!!1!). We even got some fantastic hipster-mocking opportunities. In other words, the evening was shaping up to be pretty damned good.

Then their set ended. I'm not even sure I can adequately describe the sheer horror of what followed. Two or three other bands (I stopped counting and started praying for daylight) that were so atrociously talentless that I can't imagine how they get gigs in the first place.

Now, to be fair, I am not musically inclined. When I was younger, I was a dancer, but I didn't sing. Band class never really took off for me. So one could argue that I am not the foremost authority on musical talent.

But, I have ears. And those ears were freaking pissed at my feet for dragging them to this nightmare.

The girls and I looked at each other with sympathy. The Caterpillar noticed a sign behind the bar that said "Earplugs: $1," and took the bartender up on that offer.

"It turns out any schmuck can have a band," I declared.

It was thus decided that when we inevitably start our band (which wouldn't be nearly bad enough to properly drive the point home, as the Caterpillar and Tweedle Wit actually are musically inclined) it will be called Any Schmuck.

Oh, yeah, it's happening. Watch for our first single, Faux Hipster. It'll be off of our debut album How Dare You.

Turning 26

My 26^th birthday is quickly approaching. I racked my brain trying to think of an appropriate way to celebrate.

Not dinner out, as I always feel uncomfortable when friends feel obligated to pay for my meal, and/or I always feel obligated to choose an inexpensive place.

Not to a fancy bar or club, as I am definitely not the club type.

Not a dinner party, because as much as I adore throwing dinner parties, I didn't want to do too much work on my own birthday.

I contemplated going to my favorite dive bar, complete with beer in mason jars and copious board games, but the Queen of Clubs declared that was anti-climactic for a birthday celebration.

It would be hard to top last year's outing, which took us to Showbar: Palace of Wonders in our Halloween costumes. A couple I didn't know bought me a shot of Grey Goose, and an almost completely naked burlesque performer told me she thought I was cute. And that she liked my hat. I mean, come on! How do you top an evening like that?

So, climactic or not, I have decided to have a low-key party at my place, with gourmet snacks and lots of booze. And if we head out somewhere after hanging out at home (aforementioned dive bar? somewhere on H St NE?), so be it.

Because really, when it comes down to it: it's my birthday. And I just want to enjoy my three very favorite things in this earthly life: great company, delicious appetizers, and beverages of an adult nature.

Is that so wrong?

Honking Horns

When did we as a society become so goddamned irritable?

I used to commute via car. Back home, I had a job that was a 25 minutes' drive away. Granted, most of that commute was highway and not trafficky city blocks, but I don't remember the occasional bottleneck sending me into a spiral of road rage. When did we become so angry? So impatient? So ignorant of life's pleasures?

Yes, the economy's in the shit. Yes, every year the weather gets a little warmer. Yes, our leaders are douchenozzles (ZING! LOLsarahsilverman). Yes, there are some exceptionally fucked up people in this world doing some exceptionally fucked up things. Yes, we're all commuting to jobs we hate for lower salaries than we deserve.

I get it. Really, I do. But let's face it: there's no need to lay on the horn the second the light turns green. Our society needs to, in the wise words of the Queen of Clubs, PULL IT TOGETHER.

My commute this morning was lovely. And it has been for the past week. Haven't these people noticed the clear skies and lowered temperatures? We're a heartbeat away from the leaves changing, kids. Time to take your hands off the steering wheel (or, in my case, the handlebars) and welcome autumn with open arms. Let's be grateful for what we do have, and not bitter for what we don't.

I swear, I'm not usually such a pollyanna, but can't these angry motorists see that everything looks better in fall light? Can't they tell that October breezes are delightfully calming? Don't they know that autumn dusk smells fantastic?

Maybe they just need to get bikes.

Doing Coke

I had dinner last night with the Queen of Clubs. I rarely got to see him this summer, no doubt partly because I've been occupied myself, but mostly because of his newfound and well-deserved explosion onto DC's gay scene (no poorly chosen sexual imagery intended... oh god, THE HUMANITY).

Um, moving on... he has since formed a group of gay friends with whom to hit da clubs, a group I affectionately refer to as the Gay Mafia. Well-groomed, well-dressed, always arriving to parties as one unit, always leaving parties for somewhere too fabulous even for my hag dreams.

Last weekend he went to a house party being thrown by the friend of a friend of a friend, where he pretty much only knew his mafiosos. Soon a guy arrived at the party that the Queen had never met before. The guy was schmoozing with other party-goers when the Queen noticed him take a bag of cocaine out of his pocket.

The Queen stared, putting white powdery puzzle pieces together. The guy noticed him.

"...Is this okay with you?" he asked.

"Hey, you do what you do," the Queen replied. The coke-doing group moved to the next room over. Remembering that he works for the federal government, and spent a year waiting for those pesky security clearances, the Queen realized that this was his cue to exit, and told his mafiosos he was out.

Oh, um, the early '80s called. They want their scene back.

Looking Twice

So, I was walking home from work with Stefanie Tweedle Wit this afternoon when we came across the following bizarre but freaking sweet structure with some kind of DC-themed illusion street art painted on it:


What in the holy hell is this thing?


No, but seriously.


I couldn't stop staring.

Catching Trains

It's the little things.

It's always been the little irritating things, piling up, that get me down. So, it stands to reason that it's also the little things that cheer me up.

I had a rough couple of workdays last week. Nothing huge, the kind of irritating days that wouldn't even make sense if I tried to explain. Just small things building upon each other, sending me into a funk that was tough to pull out of. Silly, really. But I left work on Thursday with a cloud over my head.

I trotted quickly down the Metro station escalator steps, anxious to get home and away from all things Farragut. To my one-bedroom, Southeast sanctuary, where wine is love and dvds of The Office are hope that maybe -- just maybe -- all the humor hasn't yet been squashed out of the world.

I got down to the platform as my train was about to close its doors. I made for the closest entrance but was brutally shot down by that "Step back, doors closing" bitch. I rolled my eyes and sighed a massively exasperated sigh, and turned to my left to see about the next train. Just one more tiny, stupid irritation in a long string of tiny, stupid irritations.

Through my Beck-induced iPod haze, I vaguely heard someone behind me say something.

"[something something], girl."

A pause. I ignored it. Then again, louder.

"GO ON, GIRL!"

I started to turn my head to the right, to see who kept hollering, and why on earth they felt such hollering was necessary. But my gaze didn't make it all the way to the kind woman who was urging me through the train's re-opened doors, as they fell first upon the doors themselves, and everything clicked.

I jumped onto the train and started to laugh. At myself, for being upset with something so ridiculous. At the kindness of strangers -- that it still exists, and that it's now coming in the form of sassy train riders who shout so you can hear their thoughtful deeds over your blaring iPod (sweet dears). At my allowing some stupid frustrations to override the overwhelming truth that life is pretty fucking fantastic.

Silly, really.

Coming Home

"And you know what she said about my red satin strappy sandals? She called them Fuck Me heels!!"

I don't think you're ever adequately prepared to hear this from a grown member of your family. From a woman who used to babysit you. From a woman whose daughters you then, in turn, babysat. I know for damn sure that when my sister invited me to sip Kir Royales and nibble on peach crostata with our mom, cousin, and aunt on a sunny Saturday afternoon, the phrase "Fuck Me heels" was not one I expected to encounter.

They say you can never truly go home again; that once you move out for good, coming home will never be quite the same. Clearly this is true. But maybe this is a beautiful thing. I've always had a great relationship with my family, but I've recently entered a new phase with them. One where I'm finally seen as the adult I've come to be, and it is absolutely delightful.

This is a phase where my mother gives me tips on how to avoid a UTI. "Trust me," she said. "I had to learn the hard way." Thanks, Mom.

A phase where my father asks me about my HPV vaccine while reading a health article in Parade Magazine. "Hey -- Gardasil! Isn't this what you're getting?"

I never really thought about the fact that I would inevitably turn into my parents -- an ex-cheerleader, drama darling, and firecracker from the Bronx and a well-traveled ex-hippie nerd with a penchant for storytelling and working the grill. Turning into them wasn't ever outside the realm of possibility, but it never really crossed my mind. That is, until recently, when all of a sudden I'm asking my friends, "Aren't you taking a sweater?" and stirring my gin and tonic with my index finger. Pure Mom and Dad, respectively.

But hey -- when my family is open enough to use the phrase "Fuck Me heels" without an ounce of embarrassment, and hilarious enough to constantly turn Sunday night dinner into a fucking laugh-riot, maybe turning into them isn't so bad after all.

Now, where's my sweater? It's almost quitting time, and those cocktails aren't going to finger-stir themselves...