Yet another problem created by children

Michael Moore recently convinced me that, for the good of the nation, it's time for the government to regulate health care. However, I would like to go one step farther, and ask that our representatives in Congress stand up to "big citrus" and start regulating the marketing of summer's signature beverage. Yes, I am talking about lemonade.

Lemonade is a drink made from lemon juice that has been diluted with water and sweetened with sugar. No, carnival workers, it is not powder-drink-mix "lemonade" that has been garnished with half a smashed lemon. No, el Tamarindo, it does not come out of a soda machine. Every other restaurant I come across claims to serve "fresh squeezed," but then gives me some bitter, urine-yellow concoction.

I know where their confusion comes from. I saw the root of the problem just the other day, in Columbia Heights. Some kids had overturned a cardboard box and scrawled "fresh squeezed lemonade, 50 cents" across the front. But were they up all night, squeezing lemons? I think not.

I'd write more, but I think I'm going to try to convince an actual paying publication to let me pen this philippic. So far, I have found only one restaurant in D.C. that has actual lemonade: Regent Thai. If anyone comes across any others, let me know.

The heat is causing people to see double

I am dying to meet my twin. She lives somewhere in D.C., I think, because when I went to Union Station the other day to buy postage stamps, the lady at the counter said, "weren't you just in here?" I assured her that I was not. She said that someone who looked just like me, down to my hair color and glasses, had come in just hours before and bought postcard stamps.

I'd chalk this up as a random coincidence, except that the same thing happened last week. I went to pick up my new contact lenses, and the optician thought that I had been by earlier that afternoon.

Perhaps I have a generic look, but that doesn't explain why people confuse me with my friend Sybil, who looks nothing like me. Some of my best friends call me Sybil on occasion. And when the two of us worked at the same office, my own boss routinely called me by her name, and visa-versa.

This alarmed Sybil because I was a bit of a slacker--tending to come in late, or not at all--whereas she was a superstar, often working well into the night. Sybil feared that I was sullying her good name.

One time, when I was in college, I had to take steps to keep another Sadie from sullying my good name. I had never met another Sadie before (besides cats and grandmas) so I was excited when I learned that Sadie Smith* had matriculated. I entertained fantasies of our becoming best friends. People would refer to us as "the Sadies" and we'd arrive at keg parties together, perhaps in matching outfits.

Sadie Smith had no such aspirations, I discovered. When I ran into her at a party, and introduced myself, she said hi, and sounded a bit bored. "We're both Sadies!" I explained. "Mmmm hmmm," she noted.

Clearly, Smith was not Sadie material. And a little bit of research showed my hunch to be correct: Her born name, it turned out, was Rainbow Sky.** Her parents had been hippies.

I helpfully spread this information around my small campus, and soon enough I was back to being the only Sadie in town.

* Name changed to protect the innocent. Also, I can't remember her last name.
** I actually do remember this detail, and it’s even more dippy than the pseudonym I made up, trust me.