Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Today I finally conceded, heading to the ER to get things checked out. The conclusion? A metacarpal contusion with risk of fracture, a.k.a. a large bruise that could possibly turn into a small break. The solution? A splint that I have to wear for a week.
In short, I hurt my hand as a result of someone else's sex life. Tell me that's a common ER story.
Also, this took me about 20 minutes to write because my gigantron fingers keeping entering errant punctuation marks. That's right -- your Suburban Sweetheart is officially a big city gimp.
Monday, January 28, 2008
But I digress.
Watching the State of the Union with three legislative assistants with politics degrees is like watching the Oscars with, well, anyone else. My friends could name every stuffy white male politician & then rattle off his voting record & reference three New York Times articles on his policies. They harped on Pelosi's violet suit with me, sure, but the majority of their watching energy was devoted to: analyzing seating arrangements ("Who put thus-&-such bleeding heart Dem next to such-&-such hardliner GOP guy?!"); criticizing environmental & foreign policy about which I have zero knowledge & therefore cannot even jest; and comparing & contrasting this year's speech with the past seven... from memory. They spent their time yelling things like, "It's all platitudes!" and unleashing the rhetorical fury of phrases like "What is our metric of success?!"
I can't believe I even know these people.
And speaking of that sentiment, let's not forget my boss, sitting in Pelosi's guest section, with the CNN cameras zoomed in on him for a good 10 seconds during the president's reference to faith-based initiatives. My friends & I yelled in unison, flailing & pointing, fielding text messages from friends & other coworkers, astounded at our sudden feelings of Fame by Association. Yes, ladies & gents, I'm helping write a book for a guy who attended the State of the Union. Envy me if you must.
But in the end, because I am me, my primary question was still, "Who was that guy next to Condi who looked so much like Cal Ripkin, Jr.?" And some questions, my friends, are just too deep, even for the intellectuals of this great city.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Last night, they hosted a very loud birthday party, which I specifically know because it felt like their guests were singing "Happy Birthday" from my bed. After finally falling asleep around 3:00, I was awakened early this morning by a lot of, shall we say, personal sounds.
So I drafted about five different versions of a respectful yet awkward note to the perps & slid it in their door handle. Then, as soon as everything quieted down, I promptly went back to sleep but was awakened yet again by a knock on my door. "You've woken me up twice today," I thought angrily, "and I am not getting up this time." Also, you know, I'm scared of confrontation, which may have been a contributing factor to my refusal to answer the door.
Anyway, they ventured over here again around 8:30 tonight, & when I answered the door, there they were: The pretty, tiny Latina girl I held the elevator for on Thursday & said "hi" to at the grocery store tonight, and her short, tough-looking boyfriend (husband?). Their names are Anita & Alvin. Quaint. As I looked at them & shook their hands, I couldn't stop thinking that I've heard these people doing it.
"You can just knock next time," Anita told me while Alvin stood there with intimidating, unblinking eyes. "The note was kind of awkward."
Oh, really? Waking up to your own personal porno wasn't awkward at all, folks, & I'm sure knocking during the next one won't be, either.
It's official: I just discovered the one thing I hate about apartment living.
Monday, January 21, 2008
But is it just me, or does January's message seem almost hostile?
The best part, in my opinion, is the display of porcelain & glass clowns on the windowsill below this message, as though smoking the good old cancer sticks will actual morph you into a small, colorful circus performer instead of a shriveled mass of death.
Or maybe the best part is the message on the window next to it.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The text he was composing was addressed to "Love of My Life," which means he actually has his significant other programmed into his cell that way.
"CAN I JUST SAY THIS?" he wrote her (or him...) all in caps. "U R 2 PERFECT & BEAUTIFUL."
"Yes, you toolbag," I wanted to say to him. "If you're writing her texts like this, she is probably far too beautiful & perfect for you, at least."
Sunday, January 6, 2008
I have so many questions as to why this was left behind. For starters, was it left there on purpose by a soul-searching someone who got fed up with His Holiness & decided this gem of a book would be more useful sitting on the filth of a public bench? Or was it forgotten by someone who got home & was devastated to later realize he or she wasn't going to be getting jiggy with Jesus tonight?
PS: Keith says he's keeping track of how many times I mention Jesus in my blog, but seriously, how could I NOT mention this???
Friday, January 4, 2008
"Who cuts your hair?" she asks me, a little bit nervously. I brace myself for the blow that's on it's way to my ego, about to tell her, but instead she says, "It's one of the best cuts I've seen in years."
Quick, somebody take this woman out in public. Introduce her to someone, anyone -- to a scenester with a Zac Efron side-sweep, to an old woman with a bun & a hairnet, to a middle-aged balding guy with a combover, to Amy Winehouse -- to ANYONE. Lady, you live in the nation's capital --- there are nearly 5 million people here, & I guarantee a few million have them have haircuts that trump this one.
Seriously? I couldn't even be flattered. I just felt bad for her.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
- Starbucks does not serve Hot Pockets. Why is this man eating a Hot Pocket inside a Starbucks?
- I can see steam rising from this Hot Pocket. Did he have the Starbucks staff heat it up for him? It's super-busy today. The Starbucks staff must've been pretty P.O.'d.
- It's a whopping 20 degrees outside. If he didn't heat up the Hot Pocket up, where did he bring it from?
- If he lives/works close enough that his Hot Pocket is still steaming by the time he carries it to Starbucks, why didn't he just eat it at the place where he heated it up?
And it suddenly occurred to me that over the summer, I regularly carried a Hot Pocket from my upstairs office into the Starbucks in the lobby. Often, in fact, I carried it in a Styrofoam cup so as not to burn myself on the walk.
I am that guy!
P.S.: Who eats a Hot Pocket for breakfast? Make no mistake, it was not the breakfast variety – those are smaller, and this one was full sized. Maybe I'm not quite that guy…