Clover in the City

Talk about a throwback: I was having lunch with a local Area Neighborhood Commissioner the other day and politely nodding at lots of the usual local politics.  "Mmm-hmm...Yeah, exactly..."  I care - I do - but I wasn't really feeling a call to action in any of these sentiments.  Then he dropped this on me, "...and he's looking to do something with 4-H."

Get.  Out.

The "he" is another neighbor, who's also the county extension officer for UDC and former 4-Her himself.  Yours truly?  A ten-year 4-H participant.  I instantly volunteered to start a club in the neighborhood.

And just like that, I found a new project to occupy the time left open by the end of my part-time job.  No more selling expensive clothes to urbanites.  Instead, I'm going to be teaching project and life skills to 9-12 year old city kids.  Or at least that's my good intention.

This project is just getting off the ground, but if you or anyone you know might be interested in working with kids in the Bloomingdale, DC, neighborhood, and you have particular skills or project areas that they (and you) would enjoy, let me know.

In the meantime, check out the new Beta version of 4-H.org (I think they still have a few kinks to work out) to learn more.  Hope to see you at a meeting soon!

Score!

Just found out one of my favorite killing-time-when-I-should-be-working websites now has an eCommerce site. For those of us who came of age in the 1980's, awkward elementary school photos with unfortunate hairstyles were a rite of passage. So how great is it to wallow in the misery of other similar individuals online?

Awkward Family Photos allows me to do just that. I literally el-oh-el at images like the one at right, in which a (I think) Polish couple lovingly illustrates the age-old tradition of...the apple-ring exchange? A quick Google search (is there any other kind?) yields no results for "Polish wedding apple," so I can only assume with awkwardness is self inflicted.

The best part? Through the magic of Zazzle, I can now get this very image on a coffee mug or t-shirt of my choosing! Most excellent. Behold today's very special Conspicuous Consumption Christmas Item of the Day.

I think I should wish to place "Agnieszka i Daniel" on a brown women's tee, just 'cause I believe the dark color would offset the apple's vibrant, dewy skin juuuuust right.

Also, I'm really craving a Jonagold right now. Just sayin'.

Dist-sub-urbia

Every six weeks or so, I step far outside of my comfort zone, to a place that's weird and foreign. I grab a Zipcar for a couple of hours and drive to the scariest place I can think of: the suburbs.

Now, before you roll your eyes and accusing me of using hyperbole for effect (who, me? never!), let me acknowledge that I spent the first 18 years of my life smack dab in the middle of the most suburban place you can imagine. Nice brick houses with nice lawns. Two cars in every garage. Strip malls and shopping malls and "big box" stores abounding. Chain restaurants. The whole nine yards.

But...

I went to college, lived in the city, and never really turned back.

Every great now again, however, I get a deep yearning for my giant-parking-lot-having, car-with-kid-safety-seat-driving, lightwash-jeans-and-white-tennis-shoes wearing suburban brethren. Why? Well, goshdarnit, even I'll concede there are some things that are just downright convenient, like buying an entire case of moist cat food, instead of dragging back one or two at a time from the corner bodega.

And who can resist the deep-friend temptation of the occasional dalliance with a restaurant where the only way you know your table is ready is the buzzing, red light winsomeness of a plastic pager in your hand?

Most amazing to me is that you can shop with coupons at clothing stores. I'd almost forgotten about such conveniences. Oh! And layaway! Brilliant concept that's all but completely ignored in urban areas. Sorry, but I'll always have fond memories of the anticipation for items in layaway. Hold on, Barbie Dream House...we're almost there!

As fun as these minor excursions and fleeting memories are, though, I truly feel like a stranger in a strange land. I alight to chain stores in my rented-for-the-hour hybrid, Paddington handbag tucked under my arm, and proceed to look only for things marked "organic" as I troll the grocery aisles for my favorite vegetarian items. What a jerk!

It's true: I don't belong. Things feel kinda familiar for just a bit, but I quickly remember why I've long since left behind the world of subdivisions and drive-throughs. It's just not me. These aren't my people. And as I park the Zipcar back in its lot and bike home to my tiny urban dwelling, I feel a sense of peace and calm. My own little slice of perfect existence.

Día de la Resistencia Indígena

Yep, I like the sound of that better: Día de la Resistencia Indígena, or Day of Indigenous Resistance, which is the term Venezuelans use for our Anglo-centric celebration of "Columbus Day." Now I'm not ganna get all PC on ya here. In fact, I fully believe that if members of First Nations want to license their tribal names out to college football teams and open up a casino on every reservation, they should be able to do so. Heck, the least we owe them is a slice of the capitalist dream.

More interesting to me, though, is a continuing fascination with travel to "exotic" locations over 500 years after Columbus first set foot on foreign soil. There's something about getting away from what we know that continues to fuel human travel, and the travel industry. This might sound odd coming from a person with no passport, who immediately recycles the Travel section in every Sunday New York Times, and whose idea of travel begins and ends with a day trip to Manhattan. I'm not saying I understand this desire to travel, but I acknowledge that it's there. These days, if you haven't solo climbed the Himalayas, backpacked through the former Eastern Bloc, or snorkeled off the coast of Costa Rica, you haven't really lived. Well guess what? I'm living just fine without any of these things.

Why don't I like to travel? I think in large part I'm afraid that what's on the other side of the journey simply won't live up to expectations, won't be "other" or "exotic" enough. David Sedaris writes, "I thought back to the previous summer, and my twenty-three-hour flight from London to Sydney... spend that much time on a plane and you’re entitled to a whole new world when you step off at the other end—the planet Mercury, say, or, at the very least, Mexico City. For an American, though, Australia seems pretty familiar: same wide streets, same office towers. It’s Canada in a thong, or that’s the initial impression." That's not the moral of the larger story he's telling, but I found it to be one of the most astute observations in the essay. As least as it pertains to my life.

I didn't ride an airplane until I was 19, and even then it was by accident. A freak snow storm had closed off all train travel in and out of Chicago, and driving back to college was equally impossible. The only alternative? A 27 minute flight to Midway Airport. Alone. Oh well - there's a first time for everything. I can't even remember the flight, it was so uneventful. And on the other end was a cold, tiny dorm room and mounds of icy snow. Meh.

So even if it's not all about the destination, at least the journey should yield something meaningful, right? I've travelled more extensively by train than any other form of transportation. And having covered 2/3 of the distance across the US in an Amtrak Coach Car, I can say again...meh. Maybe it's because train tracks tend to snake like tendrils throughout the less desirable vistas of small towns and big cities alike. Have you ever wanted to catalogue the back sides of used tire lots, the broken windows on abandoned warehouses, AND the rotting wood ghosts of train stations past? Then Amtrak it is! Sorry if I sound so cynical, but unless there's a sightseeing car and you hit that perfect spot of daylight while traversing mountains or something, it just ain't that grand.

So, if given my druthers on a holiday like today, I choose to stay home. Alone. And I think there's nothing wrong with that. I'll be celebrating with my own form of resistance, thank you very much.

I'm Rolling in a Doughnut, and a Snake Wearing a Vest

There's this great scene in Pee-Wee's Big Adventure when he's sitting inside of a giant dinosaur with Simone, a woman he's just met. She asks him about his dreams and he starts responding with the line in the title of this blog. It's hilarious not only because she's asking him about his dreams and aspirations (not literal dreams), but because it's such a non sequitor response.

Although as of very recently, I can totally relate. You see, dear readers, yours truly is undergoing a transitional period of switching from one routine of treatment for bi-polar disorder (2 types of pills, 3 1/2 pills total/day) to another (one pill, once a day). It's a change for the best, but it's wrought a big of havoc as of late, not the least of which are technicolor-vivid dreams incorporating past, present, and - in once bizarre case - even real life in real time. Let me illustrate with an example.

Last night found me a bit restless, but finally sleeping for a few hours in a row. Suddently I realized that my Mom was asking me about my senior recital for piano. Mind you, I haven't been a senior in high school for over a decade. As I was whining and complaining, I hopped into her bright yellow H2, which was parked in my old church's parking lot. It took me a minute to recall that my mother does not own an H2 - she has a minivan. I inquired about the vehicle and she said the ladies in the church kitchen didn't use it during the day so - obviously! duh! - my Mom drove it around. Okay, fair enough.

We get back to my parents house and I'm still whining that I simply was not prepared to give a recital in 10 days. Besides, I couldn't find the song book I was looking for, although I seem to have a disproportionate number of Beatles' song books. (Blame it on their recent Guitar Hero special edition.) My Mom and Dad were telling me to hurry up, the song books were all jumbled under the piano bench with my clothes - like my actual clothes that I recognized from real life (why hello, Gap plum striped v-neck t-shirt) - and I was just in a panic trying to get my books together.

You see, before I had run into my Mom at church, I had actually stopped by my piano teacher's studio which was inexplicably at the end of a hallway in a huge school (in real life she taught out of her home), but luckily I had arrived well before my lesson time and for some reason there was a line out the door. I guess she's really popular in my dreams! Oh, and I saw my best friend from third grade in the hallway and promised to catch up with him after my lesson. So, anyway, I know the clock is ticking and all I have to do is get back to the end of that hallway, play "Yesterday" or something and get on with.

Only by the time I locate the right books, the H2 is gone from my parent's driveway. Luckily, however, there's a horse there and - guess what? - I know how to ride it! I can sense that my entire family is also riding the horse with me, although don't ask me how that happened. Next thing I know I'm on the snowy streets of Girls School Road heading toward 10th Street and then on past my old schools Fulton and Ben Davis and I just know that other school is up on the right. It's like a video game, getting down the street, with pedestrians running out in front of me, cars dogding in and out of lanes...the whole nine yards.

Finally we arrive at what I think is the entrance (almost there, Mrs. Smith, piano teacher du jour!) but it doesn't look quite right and so we go to the next entrance and then we're at some terribly fancy, ginormous stone building that I sense if for the American Legion and whatnot and some guy in a top hat and tails is leading my horse inside and helping me dismount. I say goodbye to my family and ask how I get back to the school, where my piano teacher's waiting, which I'm still pretty sure is right next door. They tell me the next tour leaves in 15 minutes. A tour?! I can't just walk there?

Okay, fine. I get into the right tour, but before we can leave I realize President Obama is addressing the group! I must be somewhere important! How exciting! As we file out past the President I realize that I'm wearing some Army uniform and Obama looks right at me and says, "Don't you know it's illegal to wear that if it's not yours?" I mumble something about it being a fake and promise to take it off right away. Okay - there's my tour. Wait, wrong turnstyle. Wait! Where'd they go? Nooo...they left without me. I guess I'll still down in these chairs and see what's going on in the auditorium.

Ruh-roh, people are debating health care and I can tell I'm definitely not among like-minded individuals. As the presenters get more and more in-depth with the single payer versus public options I can't help but wonder how my brain is processing all of this in a dream. Slowly I realize I'm recognizing a voice. It's Mika Brzezinski from MSNBC's Morning Joe. Ahh...I've been slowly waking up and incorporating the television show into my dream. Phew! I hope I wouldn't end such a fantastical dream on such a boring note.

So there you have it. Don't do drugs kids. And if you do, make sure they're the legal kind that let you ride horses and meet the President.

There's Not an App for That

It started out innocently enough: sporadic flirtation, some fumbles along the way, the awkward touch or two, but we eventually worked past those initial challenges. I mean, it wasn't love at first sight. Like that weird-smelling guy with the cane who always sits a little too close to me on the bus, ours was an awkward juxtaposition at first. We'd waited a long time to finally meet each other and I was just so nervous! I'd had hopes and dreams that someday we would be together; but things just never seemed to work out.

Once we were, though, it didn't take long for us to enter the heady, happy days of our early courtship, that "honeymoon" phase where all flaws are overlooked and forgiven. We were in each other's company constantly - but so many others like us were - I didn't think anything of it. Nothing out of the ordinary. It had been just weeks of pure bliss. Well, almost. There was no small amount of disconnect, for sure, but only when we were home. When we went out, everything was fine!

And then came Independence Day. We'd been inside hanging out - it was hot. And somewhere amid the flurry of fireworks and wafting odors of charcoal, you were gone. Nary a sound as you departed.

Just like that, iPhone 3G. You. Were. Gone.


Wow. It was all so unexpected. I thought things were good. I mean, not great, but good, you know? Surely we could have worked out any problems. Why didn't you say something? Will I ever feel like that again?

I waited and looked, searching for you everywhere, hoping you'd turn up in an unexpected place. I had my friends call you - yes, I'm that girl - desperately hoping you'd pick up. But you never did. And I expected to go my own way.

And then something magical happened. I met the iPhone 3G S. Sure, it wasn't the same. Is anything ever really comparable to your first love? But it was good. It was very good. It's like meeting your ex-boyfriend's cousin at a party and finding out he's both better looking and more talented. That's what it was like. And I was happy. We were happy.

Or so I thought. Things became increasingly fraught as your family's genetics once again reared their ugly head. The lack of communication! He just shut down for no apparent reason! And why do I have to register for free applications now?

But alas, I digress. I was a steamy August day, sweat beading on my forehead, my Neutrogena "dry touch" sunscreen permeating my palms. And I dropped him. Like the anger welling up in a t-shirt wearing, ignorant-vitriol-spewing, health-care-town-hall-meeting participant as she takes on her Senator, I was furious. At myself, at you, iPhone 3G, for abandoning me, lo, 6 weeks ago. The iPhone 3G S was great, sure. But it was no you.

I am now giving up. I'm terminating my contract. I'll pay the replacement costs, return your cousin to the IT Department, and seek higher grounds. Perhaps with the Palm Pre.

It was good while it lasted, this whirlwind romance of ours. Too bad it had to end in tragedy.

Burnin' Up

How did I ever do it? How did I ever spend the hottest summer months wearing a 60 pound drum for three hours a day in the blistering sun? How did I ever spend two early fall months wearing the same drum in a fully lined wool/polyester long-sleeve, full-length pants uniform? How did I ever do it?


In the following years, I lived in a 19th-century dorm room, a second-floor walk-up, a post-war low-rise, and a 1920s bungalow...none of which had air conditioning. In fact, for only one year did I enjoy the benefits of central air, when I lived in a converted harness factory loft. And even then, it often felt like the coolness hovered in the upper two feet of the fourteen-foot ceilings.

Now, having inhabited a lovely subterranean dwelling, replete with central A/C, I find myself a hot mess - literally - when I leave the house and must face the not-even sweltering heat and humidity of a DC summer. In short, I've become soft. I've lost my advantage in the war against Summer. Summer heat >= moi.

I've read about people giving up their A/C for environmental or bedgetary reason, but how could I? I'm SO HOT when I get home. How would I ever cool down? This vicious cycle has no apparent end, and for that I am concerned. Move to a cooler clime? Open the window (yeah, there's only one), turn on the fan, and hope for the best? Become like one of those creepy old dudes on the bus with a towel around his neck? Yeesh! I don't like my options.

It seems that some people flit through summer with nary a care: Button down suits! Black sweaters! Long hair worn flowing! I, however, am not one of those people. Not anymore. Hey, Canada! You got room for one more? I might be on my way...

Shameless Plug

Ooh, guess what? I'm expanding my online empire again, this time adding "Bloomingdale Examiner" to an expanding repertoire of writing and/or complete world domination. (I haven't figured out which just yet). The cool part is that this opportunity dovetails nicely with a new cadre of Bloomingdale-dwelling bloggers and twitterers, many of whom I hope to engage in an ongoing attempt to give our neighborhood the attention it deserves. SO check out the first few articles, let me know what you think, and please send suggestions for future profiles and features!

Stand Back...Doors are Closing...

I'm a really nice person. Really, I am. I've never felt that kindness towards others - especially strangers - was an area of my personality in which I was lacking. I have no empirical evidence to prove this, of course, but the way in which children and animals generally flock to me tells me I'm smiling enough and doing something right.

I feel as though I regress for approximately 90 minutes each day, though, dear readers. Actually, it's for 45 minutes, twice each day.

This is when I step on the Metro.

Unlike many, for me "the Metro" encompasses both bus and train (That's LBJ standing in front of a mock-up of a Metrohttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif rail car in 1968). And I greet them with equal aplomb most days. And it's not for the reasons you might think! Oh no - I can deal with the delays, the fare increases, the broken A/C, the inability of Metro employees to efficiently communicate appropriately in times of crises. That's old hat for those of us who have been riding public transit for a decade or more.

What I can't stand a little more each day is the increasingly selfish and flagrantly offensive behavior of other riders. Now, some might say this is owing to a general Decline in Western Civilization As We Know It or some such nonsense. But I disagree. I think denizens of D.C. are just bad public transit riders.

Go to New York, for example. Some might say that New Yorkers riders are rude. I say no! They're efficient. Go to Chicago then (Love the EL! At left). You might think these riders are stodgy. I say no! They're practical. In both instances people know where they're going and how to get there. And they won't drive you insane along the way.

Riders here are spectacularly slow, consistently confused, and usually unaware that they're doing one of the following:
a) taking up a seat that should otherwise go do a person with a disability or someone who's elderly, or - heck! - a woman who looks really tired
b) blocking the entrance to an escalator/the bus's back door/a train's opening/any turnstyle/the forty-seven other people trying to just get somewhere for Pete's sake
c) using their iPhone as a boombox (the earbuds actually go in your ears), or having a very personal conversation on their mobile phone
d) standing when they should be walking; likewise, running when they should be walking is equally annoying (and, might I add, just downright dangerous)

Do other major cities with clogged public transportation arteries not suffer this fate? Of course they do! But here's the difference: we in D.C. consistently tolerate this type of behavior without questioning and without realizing how good we really have it. Let me explain...

Go ride the Chicago El or the NYC Subway. Wait two minutes. Somebody's gonna start asking you for money, I guarantee it. Whether they're trying to sell you something or they're just asking outright, that's a scenario that's rarely encountered here. And have you ever noticed a bit of cool air blowing around when you're on the train platform underground? Trust me, there's nothing even CLOSE to that in most major cities, and you'd really feel it if was gone. And how about the electronic signs telling you when the next train arrives? Sure, you might get mad when it's 16 minutes, but at least you have a clue as to the delay most of the time.

So it's time to rise up, D.C. Metro riders! We need to let our fellow riders what's what! We have it relatively good here, even with the lasting delays on the Red Line (although it was a terrible tragedy that brought us to this point). If you see an able-bodied young person taking a front seat on the bus, say something! If you encounter a consistent door-blocker, as them to move! We have a right to take back our system and enjoy our rides.

There IS a "Me" in Metro.

And I Ran...I Ran So Far Away

So this is really dumb: I'm running a 5K on July 4th. Correction: I'll probably be walking most of it, with a dash of jogging and maybe a sparse sprinkling of actual running. It's kinda amazing. I mean, I signed up for this darn thing over a month ago and...guess what?! That month sure did pass by quickly.

But, I'm going to go and I'm going to stick it out. Have I been "really" training? No. Have I been walking more and more each week, eating better, and lost weight? Yes. Will I be traversing the course with a trained, seasoned athlete who will help me gauge my ability to finish all five K's? Also yes. Which is why I'm going to show up, tough it out (within healthy, reasonable limits), and hopefully use this event at the kick in the butt I need to get serious about the 10K in the fall.

Is this a pretty crazy, slightly not-smart plan. Probably. But like I've said before, I'm not one to live my life without a little extreme behavior now and then. Who know? Maybe I'll end up like Emil Zatopek (above), the only athlete ever to win the 5K, 10K, and Marathon in an Olympics. Only instead of a quadrennial sporting event, my accomplishments might come over the course of a year, or a lifetime.

This Saturday just might be the start of a beautiful thing.