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...

Dispelling Myths

Lately it seems I am the subject of several (perhaps unfair) rumors.

The first rumor? That I always and unconditionally smell fantastic. Regardless of what Cheshire Kitty and Tweedle Wit say on the matter, this is absolutely untrue, as anyone within several feet of me after biking home from work through the 90° swamp would undoubtedly confirm.

The second rumor, based on my deep and eternal love for Mediterranean and Middle Eastern spreads, is that I put out when given such delicacies. That I spread for spreads, if you will. (GET IT? ZING!)

Sorry. That was terrible.

Tweedle Wit is responsible for this beauty, after once remarking, "I think if I ever wanted to have sex with you, all I'd have to do is buy you some hummus." I jokingly replied that while hummus will likely allow you to round a couple of the bases, you'll only hit it home after buying me baba ganouj.

This stuck... I can't imagine why. It's the myth that just. won't. die. To the point where telling Tweedle Wit that I planned to take a boy to this little Turkish place on 8^th Street and waxing poetic about their heavenly, smoky baba ganouj earned me winks and cartoon-style raised eyebrows.

I make a mean hummus, thanks to my dad's recipe, and I've recently been wondering if baba ganouj isn't just as easy, because the ingredients must be quite similar. Lo and behold, the stars aligned, and a charming chickadee gifted me a lovely recipe from on high!

...Okay, so that charming chickadee was Lemmonex from Culinary Couture... and she didn't so much gift the recipe specifically to me as she did gift it to The Interwebs, from whom I then snatched it. DETAILS, DETAILS. Still, the timing is perfect, no? I stumbled upon this gem mere days after I started wondering about my own potential baba ganouj-making skills.

I tried it last night. The verdict? Delicious! Although, I think the clove of garlic I used was a touch too big, giving it a bit of an unintended kick. I also suspect that using those small, farmer's-market Japanese eggplants would have made it even more flavorful.

Still, homemade baba ganouj FTW! After making it for my own dining pleasure, I might just have to have sex with myself.

Wait... what? I don't know what I'm saying.

Navigating Hell

It's no surprise to anyone who knows me that I abhor Dulles with the fire of a thousand suns. I navigate IAD for one reason and one reason only: reasonably-priced non-stop flights to SFO (god bless you, Richard Branson).

So I was highly amused last night to see the following directional sign pointing me towards my terminal, because it's exactly how I feel about the hub -- you can get there, but you're NEVER LEAVING:



Maybe hell isn't other people. Maybe hell is just Dulles Airport.

Getting Trashed

This just might be the saddest thing I've ever seen:



...I'm just saying.

Going (going) Back (back) to Cali (cali)

It's that time again.

Time for me to leave the (mildly) grown-up life that I've created for myself here in DC -- my own apartment, my real job -- and fly home to California for ten days. I go home twice a year; once in the summer and again at the holidays.

Going home has become even more glorious than it was when I was in college. My big sister only lives a half-hour's drive away from home, so our parents see her relatively often throughout the year. Sometimes they buy her things, sometimes they make her dinner, sometimes they take her out to eat. But because they always tried to make spending even, and because I live thousands of miles away, when I come home they feel like they have to make up for lost time. This almost certainly means I can look forward to ten days jam-packed with restaurant meals (that I get to pick), homemade meals (that I get to pick), and shopping trips.

I'm very close to my family, and don't get me wrong -- in all honesty, I'd be just as excited if spoiling was not imminent. But I know it is, and there's no use pretending it won't be fun. Especially considering we were not particularly spoiled as children.

So here's to sleeping late, authentic Mexican restaurants (take that, DC!), shopping with Mom, and Dad's grilled steak (and ribs and burgers and chicken and salmon)...

I can't fucking wait.

*Oh, also? As soon as I get back to DC, I'm hitting Lemmonex's Baba Ghanouj recipe, and I'm hitting it HARD. Just so you're prepared.