Tag Archives: DC

I’m just here for the books.

11 Oct

Happy Columbus Day, old man.

I walk to the MLK Jr. branch of the DC public library on Saturday to pick up a book I had on hold. It was a gorgeous day, so I was glad to invent a purpose for a four mile walk.

The city was kind of odd — despite the great weather, it was desserted in areas that are normally nuts on the weekend, and over-run with people in areas normally desserted. I suppose I could’ve solved that mystery earlier by picking up a copy of the Washington Post, and realizing a) It was Columbus Day weekend, so many locals were traveling, and b) It was Columbus Day weekend, so Taste of DC was luring people downtown on the weekend.

In any case, I was caught off guard when I approached the library, and saw a virtual party in motion. Lining the street in front of it was a MetroBus with representatives handing out literature about the bus schedule, and a Whitman Walker van providing free HIV testing.

On my way into the library, I passed Mayor  Vincent Gray, glad-handing with a few fans while his bodyguard looked on. (At least, I assume that was his bodyguard. Or his especially thuggish looking cousin. You never know in DC.)

This dog belongs in a library.

Inside the library, the trip continued. A live gospel/jazz band was playing (on Volume 12!) while 50+ people (mostly senior citizens wearing shirts made of Old Glory) looked on, clapping and bobbing. I threaded by way through the crowd to retrieve my book from the Holds shelf.

I got distracted in the Popular Collections room, browsing CDs while tapping my toes to the band’s version of “Papa Was a Rolling Stone,” but apparently not as distracted as the woman who had walked her two DOGS into the library and somehow lost the leash of the massive Golden Retriever. I looked up just in time to see it sprint out of Popular Collections, into the main foyer and across the stage where the Jazz Band was performing.

I can’t really get on the owner for being slow to the draw, because when I went to check out my book, I asked the clerk what the occasion was. “Is this a Columbus Day festival?” I asked.

He looked at me with some degree of incredulity before scanning the crowd, which — as I followed his eyes, I realized — was made up primarily of people sporting wheelchairs, canes or walkers.

“This is in celebration of Americans with Disabilities,” he told me.

And suddenly, it all made sense — the extra-loud music, the free medical tests, the dogs in a library, the flag-themed clothing.

As someone wearing a tank top and sporting a yoga mat strapped to me, I felt especially foolish for having trotted through the crowd. Next time? I’m going to take advantage of that free vision test.

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My unsolicited sales advice finds two audiences.

2 Oct

On my way to Safeway this weekend, I got stopped by a guy with a clipboard who was trying to gain support for an anti-hate crime support. Usually I walk past sidewalk campaigners, but for whatever reason, I allowed him to engage me.

His memorization of statistics was impressive, and his delivery of the message was smooth, but it ran a bit long. I cut him off, saying, “I believe in your cause, but I make a practice of only giving online. Do you have a web address I could go to?”

Instead of answering my question, he pulled out a form for sidewalk donations and started a long pitch for how they’re “only looking for a modest donation of a dollar a day…” Still trying to be polite, I said, “Again, I won’t give money on the street, but if you have a URL I’ll visit it when I get home.”

And again, he didn’t answer my question but instead plowed forward with his pitch, trying to close me  to make an on-the-spot donation. It pissed me off, and although I tend to be a polite person, I realized that if he wasn’t going to listen to me, I wasn’t going to listen to him. So I just raised my hand, said, “You need to learn to listen,” and walked away, muttering “asshole” under my breath.

Apparently I’m not good at turning off my job, because it wasn’t the first piece of sales advice I offered this weekend.

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No chocolate rain = successful first half-marathon.*

13 Sep

Remember my friend Margaret? The one who hung out with me at Alan’s pool while he was in London this summer? Well, this weekend she ran a half marathon. It was especially impressive because – prior to Sunday – the farthest she had ever run was eight miles. Oh, and she signed up for it by herself and didn’t really tell anyone she was doing it until three days before.

Pretty badass, right? I’m making her an Honorary Honey Badger Tiara in my craft room. Um. Except I don’t actually HAVE a craft room. Fine. I’m dreaming up a tiara for her. Happy now?

I just loved her approach. Probably because it’s completely different than how I would enter a race. Not that you’ll catch me running even a 5k (need I remind you of my newly-developed Old Lady Syndrome? aka Bakers Cysts?), but if I were to, I’m pretty sure I’d turn into THAT GIRL… you know, the one whose Facebook status is only about running and sleeping and carb-loading.

(Personally, I’d rather be dyslexic and crab-load. Just a preference. Plus, I’d be pleasantly surprised to find out I’d only signed up for a 13 mile course, instead of a 31 mile race.)

And I’d use training as an excuse for anything I didn’t want to do. “Sorry, can’t travel to Atlanta for work — I’m in Training.” Or, “Sorry, can’t hit your wedding shower – big run that day. You know, Training…” Or, “Jury duty? No can do – Training!”

Anyway, unlike me, Margaret decided not to milk it. She was so stealth that it only occurred to her 48 hours before the race that it was going to be weird not having anyone there to cheer her on for what was potentially a major accomplishment.

So Sunday morning Alan and I woke up and decided to surprise her at the finish. Since it was a game-time decision, we were cutting it a bit close — our best-case scenario had us arriving within 15 minutes of her crossing the line, if we’d estimated her pace accurately.

In keeping with Murphy’s Law, OF COURSE we encountered freak obstacles on our way: a fire truck closing a street temporarily so it could reverse down it, construction on a Sunday, the Vice President’s motorcade racing down Wisconsin Ave.

Throughout all this, I frantically pounded a Diet Dew and urged Alan to employ some aggressive driving tactics.

“I’m pretty sure the Secret Service will just shoot us,” he told me levelly, explaining why he wasn’t willing to ignore the Advance Detail’s motion for us to remain parked at the side of the road. “Especially since it’s September 11. I don’t think they’ll be messing around.”

That's not Margaret. Those are foam balls, ftr,

Fair enough. But once the motorcade was past us, Alan did a great job making up time, delivering me to the finish-line just minutes before Margaret came running down the shoot. Totally worth it!

Post-race, simultaneously loaded with endorphins and exhausted, Margaret wandered around in a bit of a daze. After walking past a woman holding a tiny baby, Margaret burst out with, “Wow. That baby is so — UGLY. It looks like a raisin!”

And that’s how we knew she was regaining normalcy.

Good on ya, MZ, for making a half-marathon look like a walk in the park!

[*BTW – Sadly, “Chocolate Rain” is the only line of questioning I’ve had for Margaret since I learned she was running a half-M. “Are you worried you’ll bring the Chocolate Rain? Did anyone on the trail have Chocolate Rain? What would you actually do if faced with Chocolate Rain?”  Margaret is extra-awesome for indulging my questions about it.]

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Guess it’s time to dye my roots.

30 Aug

Alan and I have been living on different continents for much of the past four months. As a result, he’s viewing me with fresh eyes. At least, I’d like to think that’s what prompted him – completely unprompted – to ask this weekend,”Wow. How dark is your hair naturally?”

I looked at him steadily, and in the pause that allowed me to formulate my thoughts, he continued, “I mean. I’m confused. I’m not seeing the amount of silvers that I usually do, so you must’ve dyed it recently, but the roots are still really dark. Almost brown. How do you do that?”

Admittedly, I find it endearing that he doesn’t realize how most women would take this. (Flashback to when he compared me to a calico cat because I had swirls of blond, brown and gray hair.) And I’m under no illusion that I have great hair or even well-colored hair.

The truth is, I don’t know what my natural color is. I was blond as a child and started swimming in middle school, so my hair has had some degree of chemical treatment since I was 11. Since I now have a ridiculous number of grays on my head (random guess would point to 25%), I color my hair to help them blend in, rather than to chase some fantasy of being blond.

In any case, Alan’s fascination with my hair led me to explain that I couldn’t exactly define “natural,” but I was pretty sure it wasn’t actually blond. He seemed satisfied with that explanation, so we hopped a bus to meet friends in Georgetown for a mid-hurricane brunch.

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DC: Natural Disaster Edition. Irene vs. Iris.

29 Aug

As morbid as it sounds, I love a weather forecast that empties grocery shelves. DC is at its finest when people are slightly panicked. Historically, this has only happened when snow is on the way, but this weekend’s threat of Irene yielded similar results.

This was during the blizzard. Awesome.

Having been gone for two weeks, I stopped in the grocery store Thursday night to restock, not realizing that the city was functioning at “Code Orange.”

Lines snaked from the cash registers back to the dairy section. Entire shelves were emptied; some items – milk, eggs, toilet paper, water – were consistent with blizzard shopping. But apparently when there’s a hurricane, people want to make SALADS. And eat CEREAL. Hmmm.

Ironically, there were still umbrellas for sale. And hurricane drink mix. Am I the only person who thought those would be the two must have items? Standing there, I wondered if I’d heard the radio wrong. Was Irene a hurricane, or a missile? Was I shopping for the wrong catastrophe? Just to cover bases, I picked up a DuraFlame firelog. (Not Pine Mountain. I’ve learned my lesson.)

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