Archive | Urban Living RSS feed for this section

A tourist in my own city

15 Oct

We’re having an amazing fall (read: 70 degrees and sunny) in DC, so I’ve been taking advantage of the weather by playing tourist. For my nerdy self, that means one thing: WALKING TOURS.

Last weekend I tagged onto a walking tour of Embassy Row, which felt a bit lazy since the starting point was a ten minute walk from my place. While it may sound dumb to take a walking tour of your own neighborhood, I wanted to do it because whenever I have visitors, I find myself making up stories in response to their questions. I thought it might be helpful to equip myself with a few facts for a change.

And man was I ever equipped! I learned a ton. Here are just two highlights to tease you into attending your own tour:

  • Embassy Row was originally called Millionaires’ Row and was where “new money” built their homes – and it became Embassy Row after the crash of the stock market, when many residents were forced to sell their homes (and foreign countries were the only entities flush with cash to purchase them).
  • Westinghouse lived here when the whole AC/DC battle was going on with Edison and he spent $1m of his own money to defend a guy on death row in NY to try to prevent the electric chair (with his current) making its debut (and generating some pretty horrible PR for his cause). It goes without saying that his house was pretty fantastic.

Excited from all that I learned on that tour, this weekend I signed up for a walking tour of Georgetown. Unfortunately, the guide had an artificially boisterous delivery style and over-the-top vocal projection, so listening to him made me cringe. I felt like a legitimate tourist as he yelled history at us on the otherwise quiet streets of Georgetown, so about halfway through the tour, when the group turned left, I turned right and walked home.

If I’m being fair, the guide was only part of the reason I bailed. My feet were hurting because I’d already walked seven miles that day because I’d stumbled upon something called “Do the Loop,” which was an art event in which several museums and galleries in upper Northwest opened their doors at no charge for the day. I used this as an excuse to check out the Kreeger Museum up on Foxhall Road, and I was impressed with the collection, which included many Picassos, Monets, Renoirs – and even a small Calder mobile.

As fantastic as the collection was, I was actually slightly more intrigued by the museum building itself, which had originally been designed and built as the private residence for the Kreegers (president of GEICO back in the day) – with the stipulation by the architect (Philip Johnson) that they leave it as a museum one day. Imagine living in a home designed to one day become a museum? It was fun to roam around and imagine decorating it for entertainment back in the 70s.

So… not much pith in this post, but if you find yourself in DC and looking for something to do, perhaps this will give you some ideas. And if you have an obnoxious tour guide, hopefully you’ll feel fine turning right when he goes left. Because he deserves it.

Tags: , , , , ,

There goes my Uber score.

25 May

Image Source: Groupon April Fool's Joke

The sun is setting on Memorial Day as I write this. I imagine most people feeling relaxed, rested and reflective after a nice three-day weekend. Not I.

I spent the day agonizing over whether I should take Miss Moneypenny to the animal hospital or wait until my vet’s office opens tomorrow morning. Because when I woke this morning, I discovered that my cat was pacing laps, alternating between peeing blood, licking herself and crying out in pain.

A quick Google search revealed that she likely had some sort of urinary tract issue that – according to the internet – could spiral out of control if left untreated.

I dialed the animal hospital to ask if I should bring her in or if I should hold off and take her to my regular vet on Tuesday. “You can schedule an appointment later this week,” the unhelpful girl at the desk told me.

I called Alan. “What do you think?” I asked, knowing it was unfair of me to pin my cat’s health prognosis on a recovering lawyer.

“Get a second opinion,” he offered.

So I called another animal hospital out in the boonies and reached a more helpful person (and cat owner), who said she would probably be fine if I waited a day, but that if it were her cat, she’d probably run it in.

I was torn. On one hand, the thing that would give me peace of mind would be taking Miss Moneypenny to the animal hospital. But I didn’t want it to turn out like when I took her in for eating the Christmas ribbon, when they looked at her and sent me home instructing me to “keep an eye on her and bring her back if anything changes.”

If I owned a car, this might be a no-brainer. But since I don’t, I have the added complication of figuring out how we will get to and from the vet. And Miss Moneypenny hates being in her carrier, so she is guaranteed to scream the entire time, making it traumatic on both of us.

Should I go? Should I wait? I was truly torn, so I decided to give it a bit of time to see what happened. Good news: Miss Monepenny eventually stopped pacing and took a nap, so I used that opportunity to run to Petco and get some remedy that is supposed to relieve the symptoms of a UTI.

All was well until Miss Moneypenny awoke from her nap and went straight to her litterbox – where she began howling, then pacing, then licking, then howling, then repeat. And repeat some more. Indefinitely.

Since it was looking like it would be a long night for both of us, I decided to bite the bullet and take her to the animal hospital. My driver on the way there was awesome – very understanding and sweet about the fact that he was transporting a cat. He went so far as to call himself a kitty ambulance, though he got a bit uncomfortable when he asked what was wrong and I told him she was peeing blood.

I guess that IS something of conversation stopper.

All was fine at the vet – they gave me two different medicines to get her started on immediately to help with the pain. And while I hadn’t spent my afternoon at a cookout, I’d only spent a few hours at the ER, so I was willing to consider it something of a win…

Until I had to get home. I was so relieved to have the worst behind me that I’d forgotten that the Uber ride is part of the trauma. Without thinking, I summoned a car and hopped into it. As soon as I set the duffel back containing Miss Moneypenny on the backseat, she let out a Volume 20 MEOW.

The Uber driver (named Cynthia) let rip with a blood-curdling scream and almost ran us into a telephone pole. “I’m sorry,” I began, but before I could finish, she interrupted, “What IS that?”

“It’s my cat,” I started to explain. In fact, I usually warn Uber drivers that I have an animal before getting into their car and ask if it’s OK. This time, however – probably because Cynthia had exercised a splendid lack of respect for other motorists and stopped for the pick-up in the middle of the road with a line of impatient cars honking behind her – I’d decided to just jump in for the sake of efficiency.

“Where IS it?” she yelled.

“It’s here – she’s zipped in this cat carrier,” I said, pointing.

“I hate cats,” she yelled. “They scare me. My ex-mother-in-law had cats. They sneaky. They all quiet. Then they just be there. Looking at you.”

“Well,” I offered, “This one isn’t quiet. She won’t sneak up on you.”

Miss Moneypenny hadn’t stopped howling from the second we’d sat down. Just then, as Cynthia turned around to look at us and confirm everything was manageable, Miss Moneypenny’s head came exploding out of the carrier. Cynthia screamed. I grabbed the duffel, somehow managing to halt Miss Moneypenny, who by that point had gotten both front paws out as well. Apparently the vet hadn’t zipped the carrier completely.

“Get that thing back in the bag!!!” Cynthia screamed at me.

I was doing my best, but if you’ve ever tried to force a cat to do something, you know it’s a lesson in stubborn wills. It felt like time stood still as Miss Moneypenny and I fought the containment battle. I finally prevailed, but had clearly lost Cynthia’s trust in the process.

Less like this.
More like this.

About this time, we almost got hit by a bus because Cynthia pulled out into traffic. “My nerves!” she exclaimed.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to stress you out. Do you want to drop me off here and I’ll call a different Uber?”

“Naw,” she said. “We almost half-way there now. Just keep it in the bag.”

I assured her I would.

About this time, she started scratching herself wildly – her arms, her legs, her head.

“Are you allergic to cats?” I asked.

“Only when I see ’em,” she responded as she scratched.

Throughout all of this, Miss Moneypenny continued to shriek, making sure that no one forgot there was a cat in the car.

Finally, when we were a block from my place, we hit a red light. “I’ll jump out here,” I offered. “I feel so bad that this has caused you stress – I can take it from here.”

Cynthia didn’t argue. I just saw my door lock flip open. “Thank you so much,” I said, pulling the carrier from the car.

Without a word, Cynthia flipped a U-turn – at a red light, from the right lane – and burned rubber as she left us in her rearview.

You know I felt compelled to give her five stars. Out of guilt. Somehow I don’t think she had the same compulsion.

 

Tags: , , , ,

Turns out, it DOES flow downhill.

24 Mar

pithypants toilet

My week started with a 9am call informing me that my toilet had overflowed and flooded the unit below mine with smelly poo water.

Before the sentence was even out of the property manager’s mouth Monday morning, I’d packed up my desk, donned my jacket and was out the door, sprinting (more like fast walking while gasping) home to see how messed up my bathroom was.

As it turns out, in an interesting twist, my neighbors are both dramatic and lazy. I say that because when I arrived home (fearing a flood of epic proportions) my bathroom looked totally normal – as in, just as I’d left it, right down to the hand-scrubbed floor tiles.

When I called the property manager back, confused, he said, “False alarm. While their bathroom DID get drenched with poo water today, apparently they’ve had a stain growing on their ceiling for the last few months, so it’s not a flood situation.”

Let’s pause for a quick poll. If you noticed a growing stain on your ceiling would you:

  1. Call the property manager ASAP?
  2. Run upstairs and let your neighbor know?
  3. Do nothing for months, until poo flooded your bathroom?

Right.

So here I was, learning that I had a plumbing (and drywalling) issue on my hands just as I’m about to head out of town for vacation. I may or may not have mildly lost my shit (both figuratively and literally, given the circumstances) for a few minutes.

Once I regrouped, I hopped into action, calling a plumber, alerting my insurance company, and tracking down contact information for someone below me who had a key to the unit and could coordinate with contractors for repairs.

So the plumber came out and quickly diagnosed the problem as a worn down wax seal. He repaired it quickly (if not inexpensively) and asked if I’d had any other issues with the toilet.

“Um, no…” I responded, somewhat confused. “What other kind of issues?”

“Ever have to use the plunger?” he asked. “That’s an American Standard toilet and those things are known for being problematic. They usually require a lot of plunging, especially in buildings where the water pressure might not be so good.”

Ah. “Actually, no,” I told him. “In the five years I’ve lived here, I’ve never used a plunger.”

And then – because I don’t know when to stop – I said, “Which is kind of ironic because growing up I needed a plunger so often that my parents bought one just for me and wrote my name on the handle.”

He paused, then laughed, then said, “Good for you.”

???

I think the only way that exchange could’ve ended more awkwardly is if he’d offered a high-five.

Also? In hindsight, how did my Crohn’s go 37 years without being diagnosed? I’m pretty sure I’m the only person I know who had her own plunger before hitting high school.

And yes, you don’t have to say it… Alan is a lucky, lucky man.

 

Tags: , , ,

Tidbit: Les Mis + Yoga

22 Mar

Image Source: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/99/7d/c8/997dc8cd37664e1fbbcc0fcba55f79b0.jpg

In my 10 years regularly practicing yoga, today was a first: I was kicked in the head by the guy on the mat in front of me as we lifted up into Warrior 3. 

All righty then. Here’s to new experiences!

Tattooed (in 100 point cursive font) on his left leg was a quote from Les Mis:

To love another person is to see the face of God.

Fair.

And now he knows what you see when you kick another person: My Face. Slightly less serene than that of God.

Can’t wait to see what he has tattooed on his right leg in our next class.

Tags: , ,

More anxiety-causing than trying on a bikini – seeing if your fridge fits.

21 Aug

My fridge has been limping along in questionable health for nearly two years now. At least, that’s when I first started hearing it rev itself up like Herbie the Love Bug at odd hours of the night. And that’s right around the same time I’d periodically open the freezer to find my tray of ice cubes liquified. Probably not a great sign for refrigeration health.

While I tend to me meticulous in keeping  my place clean, I have somewhat loose standards when it comes to what I’ll test with my gut. I regularly eat products that are well past their expiration date (that’s a marketing ploy, people!), like the package of refrigerator biscuits I ate last week that allegedly went bad back in January 2013. (For the record: They were about as bad as Michael Jackson.)

[Also for the record, I just deleted a horrible pedophile joke. See – I do know how to self-censor!]

I tell you this by way of explaining how I’ve managed to rely on an unreliable refrigerator for two years. I cultivated a taste for freezer burn and began to think it was normal to scrape an inch of ice off anything before cooking it. I came to think of the sticks in popsicle bags as “stirrers” since the contents of the bag were always malformed and sometimes still liquified.

But today is a new dawn for fridge health in my house. Sometime between 10-2, the kind people from Home Depot will bring me a new appliance.

Until then, I will slowly be forming an ulcer as I check and re-check the measurements, noting that my current fridge is wedged into place so tightly that there’s literally no room to pass a piece of paper between it and the wall or the counter that serve as its boundaries. I now notice that even the baseboard has been pried from that section of the fall to slide it into place.

If my fridge were a vehicle.

If my fridge were a vehicle.

Oh, I’ve long known it was going to be a tight squeeze. In fact, that’s what prevented me from replacing it years ago. I’ve sat at my laptop multiple times, scrutinizing the dimensions of products, comparing them to the fridge in my kitchen and – like the vote counters in Florida – have walked away repeatedly, deciding it too close to call.

But finally, blindly, about three weeks ago I decided to work up my courage and just pull the trigger. So here I sit, armed with a shoehorn, a crowbar, a vat of grease and stack of twenties (for bribing/tipping the delivery guys), hoping the appliance gods are on my side today.

Tags: , , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →