Who wants to take me to dinner?

The less a person appears to need a handout, the more likely I am to pony up. Today I ignored requests for change from two unwashed, homeless looking men, but when a guy in a business suit asked me for a few dollars, I stopped. If I had happened by a sad looking sorority-type holding out an empty Birkin bag I'd probably have written her a check for the balance of my bank account.

The businessman told me that he had left his wallet at work and was trying to get enough money to get back there to pick it up. So I dug through my backpack to find him some bus fare, while he thanked me profusely.

This was all a little embarrassing; more so when I could not find my wallet, even after emptying out my entire backpack. Yes, it seems that I, too, had left my wallet at work. I felt rather silly confessing this to the stranded bus guy. I don’t think he believed me.

My lovely coworker* was kind enough to confirm that my wallet was in my desk and hide it for me, but now I am moneyless for the evening, forced to subsist on refrigerator tapas**, and unable to run important errands involving toilet paper. Perhaps I should put on a ball gown and go panhandle on 18th Street.


* Thanks EP!
** Tonight's dinner: Tortilla chips and salsa, a spoonful of peanut butter, green beans, and a glass of chocolate milk.

Misconceptions, and the age at which I rectified them:

An object doesn't exist if I can't see it. (1)
Snowflakes are about the same size as the paper ones you make in grade school. (18)
The Amish are ultra-orthodox Jews. (20)
"The Last King of Scotland" is about a king of Scotland. (last night)

I guess it was nice he didn't step *on* me...

I totally bit it while walking to the metro this morning. I slipped on the ice and fell in a puddle of mud. (How can there be ice *and* mud at the same time? Doesn't seem fair.) Now, my falling is not a newsworthy event. In fact, it’s an annual winter tradition. But what is noteworthy, I thought, was that none of the people around me helped me get up, or asked if I was OK. In fact, one man actually stepped over me.

Once I got up, I had a little limp and moved slowly. This annoyed at least one commuter, who huffed and then blew past me on the sidewalk. The man who reached to the inner depths of his larynx, issued up a spit wad, and deposited it on a column in the Chinatown metro station, rounded out my morning.

But, dear readers, I'd like to report that chivalry is not dead. On Saturday I got a lovely, typed noted from my neighbor. It said: "Hi: I saw you the other day. You look great. If you are looking for a good time, please give me a call. Thanks. Ric."

How sweet that Ric took the time, after seeing me in the elevator Friday, to leave a note on my doorstep. He showed gentlemanly restraint by waiting a day to proposition me, rather than risk awkwardness in the elevator, as my boyfriend was also there. And the art of letter-writing is not dead, I'm happy to report, as Ric typed the note (with a typewriter) on the back of an envelope. Only if he had used cut-out letters from newspapers and magazines, could it have been more romantic.

A belated valentine

I used to be satisfied with my neighborhood shopping opportunities. For instance, there's a big Safeway less than a block from my apartment. It may not be a fantastic grocery store--the produce looks sad and wilted, Soviet-style lines stretch down the aisles, and, more than once, I have been unable to buy ice cream because police tape was looped around the freezers. (Apparently that is the health-department-required precaution if the store can't keep freezer temperatures low enough.)

But my apartment features a dorm-sized refrigerator and an easy-bake oven, so Safeway more than met my humble grocery needs.

That was until Trader Joe came to town.

Oh wonderful, wonderful Trader Joes. You are like a gift from grocery heaven, with your bulk candy, your gourmet bagged salads, your $3 wine. Thoughts of pomegranate muffins keep me up at night. I write sonnets about your adorable boxed noodle lunches.

I even love the employee outfits--Hawaiian print shirts that almost make me forget that the sky just dumped two inches of snow on the nation's capital.

But ours is a long distance relationship. Joe lives in Foggy Bottom, I live in Adams Morgan, so I have to bribe or beg friends* with cars to take me there for our Sunday trysts. And I have it easy compared to my brother, who lives in New York. Apparently the Union Square Trader Joe's is only slightly less difficult for him to get to than the one here in Washington, DC. So when he visits, he stocks up on that tasty, cheap wine and transports it home on the Chinatown bus. (And perhaps he shares it with the driver, too, given their recent safety record.)

*Shout out to LW and TF!

This also happened last month

Today, on the Metro, I was reading the Washington Post Express and discovered that I was wearing the exact same sweater featured in their style section. I felt sort of cool, since my fellow passengers had proof that I'm somewhat trendy. Though I felt a little lame, too since they probably also know that the Express and I are both several months behind the fashion curve. I mean leggings? Really.

Beware the Christian piano ladies

I just cut my fingernails for the first time in my life. Seriously. Every time in the last 27 years when I realized they needed a trim, I just chewed them off. I trace this back to my fourth-grade piano teacher, Ms. Dvorak. If I showed up to lessons with even the smallest hint of nails, this extremely stern octogenarian would pull out her piano-side clippers and get to work.

So, on the way to lessons every week, I started preemptively gnawing down my nails, and the habit stuck. I don't bite them out of nervousness. Teeth are just so convenient compared to clippers. If I were flexible enough, I'd bite my toenails too.

Unfortunately, this has become a problem. On my last dentist visit, I learned that I have ground my incisors flat. "You're turning yourself into an herbivore!" my dental hygienist exclaimed, horrified.

I don't care that I can't rip and tear meat, because I am, in fact, an herbivore. But I'm finding that I can't really bite through my nails anymore, either. So, tonight, I faced my nail clipper fears.

Ms. Dvorak didn't just leave me terrified of basic personal hygiene; she also made me scared of the piano. I cried every week before and after lessons, and after a year my parents got me a different teacher. But even though my fifth-grade piano teacher was a gentle, soft spoken, lady, I was terrified of her too. It didn't help that she was also very Christian. And though she ordered me a book of Hanukah songs while all her other students learned variations on Amazing Grace, I could tell that she thought I was going to hell.

Recipe time

Last night my friend Louis came over, and he wanted something to drink. I named the three liquids in my refrigerator, assuming he'd pick one. But that crazy Louis, he wanted ALL THREE mixed together. And even though one of the drinks was this insanely tart cranberry juice that everyone but me thinks is disgusting, the resulting concoction turned out to be:
A. Tasty, and
B. A lovely peachy-pink color.

So here is the recipe--perfect for making your honey a nonalcoholic Valentines cocktail. (True love means not always getting drunk before you make out.)


A splash of unsweetened cranberry juice
1/2 glass seltzer water
1/2 glass apple cider

Directions: Pour all liquids into the same glass. Drink.

Advice to starlets (and their sisters)

Reports indicate that Hilary Duff is beginning to tread the Lindsay Lohan path of alcoholism and general debauchery. What a copycat. But like all copies, Hilary's version of self-destruction lacks much of the poignancy of the original.

In Lindsay's case, there's talent and a career at stake. Lohan was great in Mean Girls, and she keeps getting cast next to actors like Felicity Huffman and Annette Bening. So when you read about drug problems causing Lohan to pull out of projects, or get publicly reprimanded by directors, you think, "Stop Lindsay! Don't throw everything away!" But when you read about Hilary drunkenly stumbling around a club, you think: "Whatever." All that's at stake, in her case, are future sequels to Cheaper by the Dozen.

Even lamer than Hilary Duff, by the way, is her older sister, Haylie. It's OK for younger sisters to copy older ones--like when Ashlee Simpson copied Jessica's nose. That's expected, normal behavior. But older sisters should be forging their own path in the world. Haylie: Let Hillary handle the voicing of baked goods; you go join Teach for America or something.

And it looks so much like Clearasil

In case you were wondering, Mod Podge is not good for your complexion. A quick explanation for those of you who missed 4th grade art class: Mod Podge is a diluted, glue-like substance that's used in paper mache and decoupage projects. I was doing the latter when I knocked the Mod Podge bottle off of the table. It bounced on the floor and ejected its entire contents onto my head. The physics of this event are still a little unclear to me, but suffice to say that there was a sheet of white glue covering my hair, my glasses, and parts of my couch. I looked like a "Got Milk?" ad outtake.

I tried to clean up quickly, because my friend was on his way to pick me up for a show. But attempts to rinse my hair in the sink left me with "Something About Mary" bangs. So I gave up and took a full-blown shower. The dishrag I used to mop the glue off my face has since stiffened up and is now better suited for use as a ping pong paddle.

I thought my arts-and-crafts woes would end there, but today I started breaking out like a teenager on steroids--something that hasn't happened since I was a teenager, on steroids.* And clearly the Podge is to blame.

*Just kidding, dad!