That's So Meta...carpal

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

I neglected to mention that when I woke up to Anita & Alvin having sex on Saturday morn, I knocked on the wall to try to get them to shut up -- & damaged my hand. The concrete wall is, well, concrete, which was not what I expected; basically, I tried to kung-fu a brick.

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.
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The Capital Red Carpet

Monday, January 28, 2008

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Tonight was President Bush's final State of the Union address, which means he has fewer than 350 days left in office (GOD BLESS AMERICA). I watched the speech with some of my coworkers whilst drinking an unpalatable combo of 7 & 7 alongside mint hot chocolate that tasted intensely of bananas...

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.
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The Vocalists Next Door

Sunday, January 27, 2008

I got new neighbors last month & thus far, they've been tolerably loud. I say "tolerably" because I've been too chicken to say anything to them, primarily because there's no easy way to tell perfect strangers, "I can hear you having sex at least twice a week."

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.
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Passive Threats from the Vintage Beyond

Monday, January 21, 2008

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In November, I wrote about happy graffiti on the window of a consignment shop near my house. Apparently it's a common thing -- the owner changes the window message every month or so. I didn't post about December's message because it was too freaking weird, although in retrospect, that's exactly why I should have mentioned it here. It read "MANDERIN he will be cold in winter," which doesn't make any sense, any way you slice it (& it's also misspelled, although that's the least of its issues).

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.


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With Justice & TV Drama For All

Friday, January 18, 2008

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Girl on Train: “So what do you think of Fred Thompson?”

Guy on Train: “I think he’s better off going back to being Arthur Branch.”

Girl: “Really? I think he’s so inspiring.”

Guy: “…Arthur Branch inspires me.”
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Virginia's Grapefruit Glory

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

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The Noodles & Co. at Pentagon Row in Virginia sells
in the FOUNTAIN!!!

Oh, just another joy of living in the Greater Washington metropolitan area.
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Because I am a nosy sonuvabitch, I sometimes peer over people shoulders at the texts they write, the emails they read & the books they browse. This guy sitting next to me on Thursday's blue line train to Franconia/Springfield, holding the snazzy red phone pictured below, was quite possibly one of my favorite text messagers in a looong time.

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."
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The Metro Messiah

Sunday, January 6, 2008

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Today I found this book, abandoned in the Gallery Place/Chinatown Metro station:

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???
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Skim milk, anyone?


...This is what my water looks like.

I think the proper term for this is "yikes."
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When Compliments are Insulting

Friday, January 4, 2008

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I sat down on the L1 bus & took my hat off, shaking out my crappy haircut (which is, yes, still crappy, even though it's been a couple weeks since the initial atrocity of the cut). And the woman across from me is staring at me, perhaps, I assume, because my hair looks like something out of a horrible "walk of shame" scene in some college-themed movie.

"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.

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Eat Where You Heat

Thursday, January 3, 2008

This morning, I saw a guy eating a steaming Hot Pocket inside the Connecticut & R Starbucks. Perhaps this wouldn't have set any bells a'tinglin' in your head, but mine went off like four fire alarms in the middle of the night. In quick succession, I wondered the following:
  1. Starbucks does not serve Hot Pockets. Why is this man eating a Hot Pocket inside a Starbucks?
  2. 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.
  3. It's a whopping 20 degrees outside. If he didn't heat up the Hot Pocket up, where did he bring it from?
  4. 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…

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