Faith on Stuff

warning: this blog may give you nightmares (at the very least it will make your skin crawl)

2012-01-11T14:51:00.000-08:00

Time heals all wounds.

It’s true. I believe it.

Arguments, slights, heartbreaks, hurt feelings, stubbed toes, cars dented with no note left, keys taken from the workout room and never returned, getting cut off on Wilson Blvd at 8 pm on Tuesday night (am I getting too specific?) – while frustrating and hurtful and hard at the times, most situations seem much less important or painful 4 years after the fact.

MOST situations.

One day I came across the following blurb in The Washington Times:
A Howard County couple has filed a $500,000 lawsuit over a bedbug infestation in an Ellicott City apartment. Orville and Rebecca Brown say they were forced to move out of their apartment and throw away most of their possessions, including all of their 3 year old daughter’s toys. The lawsuit was filed Friday in Howard County Circuit Court and names the owners and managers of the apartment complex. A representative of Hirschfeld Management Inc., which operates the complex, declined to comment. The lawsuit says the Browns were told that bedbugs had been found in an adjacent apartment and that their apartment would be treated as a precaution. They claim that treatment never occurred. All three say they suffered red, itchy welts, and Rebecca Brown is undergoing therapy to deal with the trauma of the infestation.

Now, there was a time in my life when I would have read this story and thought “Lawsuit? Therapy? For bugs? Are you people crazy?”, but instead my reaction to this article was, “Hmmm…I wonder where they found a therapist who specializes in bedbug trauma….and I wonder if they take patients who are recovering.”

You see, time does NOT heal all wounds...

5 years ago, I was aware of bedbugs. Having worked in an apartment building leasing office for a year (in a metro area experiencing a surge of bedbugs) I had encountered a number of residents with the problem.

I remember one girl in particular who was around my age and came into our management office every single day (sometimes twice a day) to complain about the problem. She yelled a lot, she cried a lot, she showed us the bites on her legs, she sometimes brought pictures of her mattress and once even brought a live bedbug in a plastic bag – as proof.

During one of her visits (somewhere between pointing out a new bite on her ankle and threatening to sue me, my boss, and everyone related to the company) she looked at me with pure frustration and cried,
“I know you all think I’m crazy.”

I responded, as politely as possible, “Of course we don’t think you are crazy.”

We totally thought she was crazy.

It’s not that any of us doubted there were bedbugs in her apartment – I mean, she had provided ziplocked proof (living ziplocked proof) – the crazy was not in their existence but in in her reaction to their existence. After all, they’re just bugs right?

Right…

and I truly believed that…

until one fateful March day 5 years ago when, while taking the sheets off my bed to wash them, I noticed a tiny spot on the mattress…
a spot which, on closer examination, was actually not a spot at all but a tiny bug…
a tiny bug that lived on my bed…
and looked a lot like the bug I had seen only 2 years prior…
in a ziploc bag…
a ziploc bag belonging to a girl who was crazy.

The finding led to the first of many terrifying (yet strangely addictive) google searches (“bugs in bed” “get rid of bugs in bed” “bug in bed solutions”) all of which boiled down to one definitive conclusion – no matter how I worded the search, I had bedbugs and was quite sure my life would never, ever be the same.

Here are some terrifying bedbug facts (from those early google searches) which were seared into the nightmare-inspiring corners of my mind (where they still reside today):
-Most of the online literature refers to a bedbug biting you as “feeding” and calls the act a “blood meal”. This is perfectly acceptable terminology…until you realize that this means you have been "fed"on and that you are a “blood meal”.
Oh, and you often find 3 bites clustered together because they usually bite you three times in one go – that’s referred to as “breakfast”, “lunch” and “dinner”.
Seriously, I’m not kidding - it's something straight out of the 1,252,208th installment of "Saw".
-Bedbugs hide in the crevices of your bed until you are most asleep (2-5 am) and then come out for their "blood meal". The ugly little blood sucking stalkers actually study and learn your sleep cycle.
-After a “blood meal” a bedbug can survive 6 months without eating again – 6 MONTHS. You could straight up abandon your apartment for 6 months and they would still be right there…waiting for you…hungry.
-A female bed bug can lay 1-5 eggs after a “blood meal”. So, by the time you realize that you have a bite (which is likely your first clue that you have bedbugs) there could be (and probably are) 1-5 baby bedbugs just about to hatch.

And that, my friends, was the beginning of my descent into madness.

For longer than I care to admit I slept in the bathtub…with the bathroom light on and the bathroom door locked.
Note: Sleeping in the bathtub, having the light on and locking a door do not in any way protect you from bedbugs.

When I realized that sleeping in a bathtub with the light on did not lend itself to actually sleeping, I bought a metal cot from a camping store. Absolutely sure that bedbugs couldn’t swim, it made complete sense that I could put each leg of the cot in a pan of water and they couldn’t get to me.
Note: This may actually work but it was not practical for a number of reasons.

I threw out 75% of my wardrobe.
Note: Bedbugs are small, but not microscopic. A visual inspection of your clothing is all that is necessary and a good spin through a hot clothes dryer will kill off any eggs.
I still miss that black skirt…sigh.

I took entire days off of work to meet the exterminator for his weekly visit.
Note: Exterminators work in empty apartments all day (as MOST people don’t take time off of work to see them) and are lonely. They like telling truly alarming stories…mainly colorfully describing the most disgusting bedbug infestations they have seen.
Talking to him actually made me feel worse.

I spent a lot of money regularly visiting all of the Targets in the great DC area to buy zip-able mattress covers in bulk – I had a stockpile of about 25.
Note: While zip-able mattress covers are extremely important in containing and ridding your life of bedbugs, you only need 1 (2 at the most). Yes, 20 layers of plastic between you and the bugs does make you feel better, but it’s just not money well spent (especially when you already have to replace your entire wardrobe).

I found myself uncontrollably telling complete strangers about my bedbug problem.
Note: Bedbugs make people uncomfortable and they will:
1) Look completely horrified.
2) Step a good 10-20 feet away from you.
3) Almost immediately, develop phantom itches on their arms and legs, which they will scratch uncontrollably throughout the conversation.
Trust me, just keep it to yourself until the bugs are gone.

I went to the management office every single day to yell, cry and show them my bites.
Sound familiar?
Note: It’s not their fault and there is nothing they, you, or anybody can do other than send the exterminator once a week until the problem is gone.
Also, they did not plant the bedbugs in your apartment just to make you crazy – and claiming that they did only makes them think you are even crazier then they already think you are (and they do think you are crazy).

So, after 3 months of madness I had no bed, no couch no clothes, no friends in the management office, and very, very little sleep BUT I also had no bedbugs.
Life slowly began to return to normal and now (5 years and an apartment later) I can look back and laugh…
sort of…
in a way…
what was the name of that Howard County bedbug therapist?

The race home

2011-10-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

Weaving quickly through the parked cars, I can hear the click-click of heels on the pavement behind me. A sense of urgency overtakes my entire being. I reason with myself, "Relax, Faith, just chill out", as I struggle to fight the urge to break into a 5K pace right there and then in my skirt and heels, my arms already pumping with form similar to that of a competitive walker (an awkward, amateur competitive walker).

Why the rush? Is this a race? Is somebody dangerous following me?

No....this is the walk from the metro stop to my building (an incredibly short walk consisting of 2 blocks and a large parking lot). The person behind me is somebody I assume to be (based on their chosen route through the parking lot) a fellow resident.
He/she is heading home just like me and, well, I just really, really, really want to get there first.

Competition has never come naturally for me.

6 years old - I cried before every single event of every single summer swimming meet.
3rd grade - I'm permanently scarred by the agonizingly painful weekly game of "Around the World" we played as a "treat" every Friday of my 3rd grade year (every...damn...Friday). Not familiar? It's a math flashcard game that pits students against one another in quickly moving, one-on-one battles of multiplication domination not unlike the gladiators of ancient Rome. The ultimate winner feels the love and admiration of teachers and students alike (not that I would know) while the losers, full of shame, are directed to sit on the floor where they are forced to re-write the math problem they missed 100 times (that feeling I knew well).
High School Tennis - I did well in doubles but completely stunk at singles. Without a competitive teammate to push me I completely fell apart (at least, I choose to remember it that way...it's highly possible I just really stunk at tennis in general and my doubles partner was carrying me through matches.)
High School Swimming - I wanted to cry before every single swimming meet but didn't (usually...well, ok, often).
College - N/A. I went to a nice Minnesota liberal arts school where we focused on studies, character, religion and feelings...unless you were trying to get into a choir (in which case the competition was actually pretty brutal).

Then I moved to the DC area where competition seems to wedge its way into every nook and cranny of life -from the running track at Washington Lee High School to the offices of Capital Hill to the shopping malls of Tyson's Corner. I like to think I'm immune but, after 9 years in this world, I've noticed a competitive nature sneaking its way into numerous areas of my life.
In some of those areas it's perfectly appropriate and even helpful.
In other areas it's just not.

In an attempt to streamline my competitive-ness to areas of my life where it is actually helpful I have attempted to evaluate its appropriateness in a few specific situations:

Conversation - Not acceptable.
Competitive conversation can be found at most any social event. Somebody will always know more about wine, more about current events, more about the arts, more about everything. Should you find yourself in this situation, there are 3 potential routes to take 1) Compete (DANGER: only try this if you really actually do know more about the topic than the other person...otherwise, it's just embarrassing for everyone involved). 2) Listen intently, act interested, and try to learn something about wine, politics or whatever the conversation happens to be about. 3) Turn the conversation to something you know more about - personal example: "It's funny you should say that because just the other night on The Real Housewives of New Jersey...."

Running marathons - Acceptable.
Acceptable, encouraged and helpful. Sure you are really, at the heart of the matter, competing with your own best time and trying to challenge your own goals and testing your personal limits and blah blah blah... whatever, after running 13 of them I can honestly say that it's really nice to cross the finish line before other people (more room in the snack area and shorter lines at the massage table).

Yoga - Not acceptable.
Yoga is about the light inside of you and the focus is supposed to stay within the confines of your mat...YOUR mat...not the mat of the sweaty guy next to you or the snotty 22 year old girl in front of you! Stop it! Listen to your own voice, I know you want to hold the pose longer than sweaty guy, I know that you feel measurably better about yourself if you balance longer than the snotty girl, but that's not why you are here! Namaste Dammit!

Driving - Not acceptable (for me).
I'm not a good driver...in fact, I'm a pretty horrible driver, and always have been. For people like me (you know who you are and you know why your friends always offer to drive) even a hint of competitive driving on non-competitive driving roads is not only unacceptable, but flat out dangerous. Sure, it would be gratifying to prove a point in, oh say, your little blue Hydundai by getting to the next red light faster than, oh say, the Beamer next to you but, seriously, just watch for pedestrians and make sure you aren't in reverse.

Spin class - Acceptable.
Competition in spin class is perfectly acceptable. Unfortunately, it's also nearly impossible because you are on stationary bikes. While you can tell how fast another person is pedaling, there is absolutely no way to tell what their resistance is set to (believe me, I've tried). Just mind your own business, focus on the lovely burning feeling in your legs, watch the clock to make sure your instructor isn't making you sprint longer than they claim, and listen to the deceptively fun club music.

Leaving spin class - Why?
Why is it that the minute the fast music stops and the sprinting ends, everyone books it for the handi-wipes to wipe down their bike and bolt out the door? We still have 5 minutes of cool down and stretching! Where is everyone going? The spin instructor is still talking.....hey guys....wait....

Scrabble - Acceptable
Acceptable...unless you are competing with somebody with different Scrabble goals. If your goal is strictly to make cool words DO NOT play with somebody who is playing for points alone. Playing a cool, original word like "toea" (a monetary unit of Papua New Guinea) and being outscored by a well-placed "zoo" could end a relationship.

Swimming laps at the local lap swim - Acceptable
Acceptable, and even good, UNLESS you are sharing a lane with people who are much faster swimmers than you are, in which case, come on now let's be realistic. Trying to compete with much faster swimmers (when you are all stuck in the same endlessly looping swimming pattern) is a horrible idea. You will either die of exertion trying to keep up with them or they will kill you out of frustration for constantly being in their way....and neither is a good option. Just take your kickboard and wander over to the lane labeled "medium pace" ok? We've all had to do it - your pride can take the hit if it means not dying.

How cute your child is - Not even a tiny bit acceptable.
All kids are cute - no one child is cuter than another.
I'm dead serious. Don't push this one. You know in your heart that yours is the cutest and that's all that matters.

How cool your pet is - Not acceptable.
All pets are cool - Cats, dogs, hampsters, parakeets, gerbils = all cool.*
*Note: Pets who are willing to wear funny costumes are cooler than pets who are not. I know, I know you would think the opposite, but it takes a certain sense of self to be willing to allow your owner tie a funny hat to your head and take a picture to share on facebook.

How important you are - Not acceptable.
Importance is 100% opinion-based and a number of different pieces of criteria can be weighed a gazillion different ways to mean 1,000 different things to 100 different people. Everyone is important (PERIOD)*
*Punctuation mark is spelled out to emphasize the importance of the statement.

And finally:

Walking from the metro stop to the front door your apartment building - Not acceptable (sigh).
Probably best to take the long way home and avoid the situation altogether. There's nothing flattering about amateur competitive walking...across a parking lot...in heels.

Not so much a blog as eavesdropping

2011-08-05T12:28:00.001-07:00

Nothing very interesting has happened in the past month - certainly nothing worth blogging about.

(if you are still reading after that intro you are either a very good friend or really, really bored)

I blame the stale blogging environment on 3 things:
1) The disgusting, apocalyptic, how-could-anyone-possibly-deny-the-existence-of-global-warming heat seems to keep all of the odd/funny/interesting people inside, so I haven't really crossed paths with anyone worth writing about.
2) The ineffectiveness of our government (each and every side of it - the left, the right, the up, the down, the tea party, or otherwise) has left me in what seems to be a permanent state of crabbiness - walking around muttering inappropriate things about "career politicians" and the overall state of things. This state of mind, and the resulting crabbiness, is fairly time consuming and takes a lot of concentration so, if anyone interesting has crossed my path, I've likely not seen them or the humor in the situation.
3) Feel free to fill this spot with any point that makes even a little bit of sense - I couldn't think of anything but feel a strong need for a bulletpoint 3.

So, due to the 3 (or so) above stated points, this is not a blog.
Yes, it's posted on a blog site,
Yes, it looks kind of like a blog,
but, as I had very little to do with it, I cannot claim it as anything other than bits and pieces of a conversation overheard at a baseball game on Sunday, July 31st.

It was 1,000,003 degrees at the G. Richard Pfitzner Stadium where I was enjoying time with my friends and time with my nachos (both extremely important) while watching the Potomac Nationals: these are single-A baseball players who may (someday) make it to a double A team, from where they may (someday) make it to a triple A team, from where they may (someday) get to the majors.

Because it was 1,000,003 degrees at the G. Richard Pfitzner Stadium, there weren't many people at the game. The players were there, we were there, a handful of the players' girlfriends were there (at least, we assumed they were players' girlfriends, as they looked a bit too dressed up to just be fans - I mean, I generally don't wear makeup and heels to the ballpark but maybe that’s just me), a handful of dedicated supporters and, a row behind us, a little boy and his dad.

With that, I give you just a few pieces of the words and wisdom of (approximately) 6 year old Albert and his father (who, by the way, had a thick Wisconsin/Minnesotan accent and is almost definitely, although he didn't say it, a Packers fan).

-------------

Dad: Albert don't do that! Don't ever look directly at the sun again. Promise me you won't. No, not even with sunglasses.

Dad: I think there are about 3 billion people in the world. There are 1 billion people just in China.
Albert: My feet are hot, can I take off my shoes?

Albert: ...and then the Indians were mad...the Indians were mad but the General was happy...and the General told the Indians.
Dad: Are you watching the game?

Albert: Dad, you have muscles like that baseball player.
Dad: No, I don't have muscles like that baseball player.
Albert: but you're hairier

Dad: Yes, I did smoke a cigarette once or twice but I shouldn't have and I don't want you to. Ever. Do you promise? Albert?

Dad: See he pitches with his left hand like your uncle and me - not many people do that.
Albert: You think you're special because you are left handed but you're not special at all - you're not even Jesus.
(a point I definitely plan to make next time Dave and I have an argument)

-------------

Thank you, Albert and Albert's dad, for writing my blog for me and for taking my mind off of the heat, off of career politicians, and off of bulletpoint 3.

The most awkard biker quite possibly ever

2011-07-12T09:26:00.000-07:00

"It's ok dear, as long as you are ok" said the very nice (and more than mildly concerned) elderly woman whose unfortunate timing for crossing the street nearly (nearly) coincided directly with my first attempt at riding my new "grown up" road bike.

I don't like change.
If I had my way, I would do things exactly the same way forever and ever and ever and ever and ever.
Change is hard and uncomfortable and embarrassing....and sometimes painful (a lesson the very nice elderly woman watched me learn firsthand).

A few weeks ago I, in a rather ungraceful display, fell on my bum.
The pain was not immediate but over the next few days I started noticing things:
Walking was really, really painful - a minor inconvenience.
A jolt of pain shot through my body every time I stood up - could be worse.
Standing on my left leg was excruciating - as long as I could still stand on my right leg.

My morning run was unbearable - ok, now this is a serious problem.

After a few days of not getting better, I visited my favorite chiropractor who, having a great deal of experience with me and all of the other obsessive compulsive runners of Northern Virginia, looked up with (what I took as) an amused smile and said,
"No running. You have an injury and you need to let it heal."
"How long?"
"Until it stops hurting."
"A week?"
"Until it stops hurting."
"2 weeks?"
"Until it stops hurting."
"Can I work out on the elliptical?"
"Have you tried the elliptical?
"Yes."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes."
"Then no."
"How long?"
The conversation went on like this for a while - I like to think he's the difficult one.
In the end, the two of us (my chiropractor/arch nemesis/shrink and I) came to the conclusion that swimming, spin class and body pump class all didn't hurt and were therefore ok.
He also suggested that I try biking.

And this is where change once again forced its way into my happy little life. Well, at least into my workout schedule.

Biking is one of those things that had always been out there hanging out on the horizon of my comfort zone along with all of those other things that I would kinda maybe sort of like to try someday - golf, guitar lessons, day trading.

I had come extremely close in the past, even buying a bike in March of this very year.

It was a very nice bike. Other people thought it was a very nice bike too. In fact somebody else liked it so much more than all other 100 bikes in the bike cage of my building that they cut the fence to which it was locked and took it for a ride....a very long ride...and have yet to bring it back.

The theft of this bike was tragic in that it was a significant loss financially and had a rather disheartening effect on my overall view of my fellow man (specifically, the cross section of "fellow man" who live in my building and know the combination to the bike cage on the G3 level of the parking garage).
The theft also, however, gave me an excuse to not start biking which was, in some ways, a relief because biking was change and was therefore scary.

After all, I still had running.

Except now, 3 months later, my ability to run, one of my truest comforts and passions, had been torn from me tragically (well, for a few weeks anyway..."until it stops hurting") and you can only do so much swimming before the chlorine turns your brain to mush and so much spinning before you want to kill your insanely peppy instructor with her insanely peppy music and her attempts to make a sprint sound "super-fun".
It was the perfect window to take the plunge and start biking.
So, over the 4th of July weekend, Dave and I went shopping and I bought a pretty pink bike, bike rack, bike helmet and roughly $100 more of the endless assortment of things that you need when you take up biking (not a cheap pastime as it turns out).

All week long the bike sat in our apartment (not in the bike cage, thank you very much) and Mo the cat stared at it with a look of awe/fear (she doesn't like change either) as I worked myself up for what would be my first ride on Saturday.
I watched youtube videos on general bike maintenance including how to take off a tire and how to patch a flat.
I learned the signals for riding in traffic.
The only thing for which I didn't fully prepare was, well, riding the bike.
I mean, we had rented bikes on vacation and I had ridden a ton of stationary bikes. Plus, I went to spin class and did all kinds of drills on bikes (even synchronized with music), so how hard could it be?

As it turns out, balance on narrow road bike wheels adds a very different element to biking and that, along with my tendency to panic easily and my general fear of traffic, all led to one undeniable conclusion - I am the most awkward biker quite possibly ever.

Over the course of the weekend, I want on two rides totaling around 55 miles and, in that rather short distance, managed to:
nearly run a biker (or two...or three) off the bike path ,
run over a fuzzy caterpillar,
terrify a pedestrian (and his dog) walking the opposite direction,
run into the side view mirror of a parked car (with some momentum - BIG bruise),
entertain a large number of drivers at stop lights with my valiant yet clumsy attempts to start and stop,
somehow get the bike pump (apparently not-so-securely attached to my bike) stuck between the back wheel and the bike frame...leading to an extremely sudden and dramatic stop and a brief moment of fear that I might have lost not one but two bikes in 4 months,
and, as you already heard, ran into a curb in an attempt to not run over a very nice and concerned elderly woman.

In the end I, the bike, and all others involved (with the exception of the caterpillar - RIP fuzzy caterpillar) survived the weekend.

I still don't like change (and in this particular case have actual bruises to prove why) but I know that succumbing to the pain and embarrassment of new things often leads to a positive outcome, as it has many times in my life.
I'm sure, with time, the feeling of being out of control and off balance will disappear and I will learn to love biking almost as much as running (which I hope to be doing again very soon).

Now for day trading....

Sometimes a DC girl needs a little dose of "Minnesota Nice"

2011-06-08T14:02:00.000-07:00

"They stopped the metro for like 40 minutes...and she didn't even die!"

Now, to be fair, this is a tiny piece of a conversation I overheard while walking by two women talking in a parking lot.
I absolutely cannot say any of the following with 100% certainty:
1) That the speaker herself had been delayed for 40 minutes on the DC metro.
2) That the "she" to whom the speaker was referring's potential (but not resulting) death was somehow the cause of the speaker being delayed for 40 minutes on the DC metro.
3) That the speaker would somehow have felt better about having been delayed for 40 minutes on the DC metro had the "she" to whom she was referring actually died.
So no, I don't know that any of these things are true (but I'm pretty sure they are all true).

I've said it before and I'll say it again - there are a lot of reasons I love DC:
- beautiful green areas and lots of places to go for long runs
- the hustle and bustle of everyday life
- interesting people around every corner
- the constant feeling that something important is happening
- 4 major sports teams
- ease of public transportation
- mild winters
BUT
- friendliness and mutual concern....ummm,yeah, not so much.

The thing about the aforementioned quotation is that, at the time I heard it, I wasn't exactly shocked.
Ok, yes, it made an impression, but the idea that a person would be annoyed with another person for almost dying (but not actually following through) because it caused a 40 minute delay in their day, didn't seem totally unreasonable. 40 minutes is a long time. In 40 minutes you could miss an important meeting...or appointment...or lunch...or movie...
It was only when I thought about it for a second, and thought about my own (at first) understanding of the annoyance, that I realized what I was validating.
A 40 minute delay because of track work - annoying.
A 40 minute delay because there is an event in DC and the trains are being slow - annoying.
A 40 minute delay because a train is stalled - annoying.
But a 40 minute delay because somebody almost died and then didn't - I think maybe that's acceptable.

The self-realization came just in time - apparently I'm not a callous person yet....yet.
Still, this moment walking across a parking lot served as a very clear warning to me of how, with all of the things I love about DC, it is a very easy place to fall into an extremely uncaring state of mind.

They say that if you live here for 4 years, you will develop allergies (since the District is basically built on a swamp)...but is it also possible that after 9 years you start to lose feelings?

I suddenly felt a very real need to guard myself against the inevitable - a need to take action.
I needed a jolt of positive-ness, an injection of friendly, a blast of caring.

As fate would have it, in less than a week (and clearly just in time) I had a ticket to board a plane bound for the ideal place for the positive-ness, friendly and caring that I was seeking - my 10 year college reunion in, you guessed it, Minnesota.

I was on my way to the land of lakes, big shopping malls and friendly....everything was going to be ok.

The weekend was exactly what I needed.
Aside from the joy of seeing family, friends, and new babies (all natural cures to grumpiness), I enjoyed random shots of positivity around every corner.
It started with an excellent book recommendation from the woman at the book store during our layover at the Chicago Airport (you can't go straight from "DC unfriendly" to "MN friendly" because it would be too much of a shock..."Chicago kinda-friendly" is a good transition) who told me with enthusiasm that I NEEDED to read "The Hunger Games" -that I would be addicted to the trilogy by the second chapter (she was right).
This was followed by a very nice conversation with the checker at Owatonna, MN Walmart who felt very strongly that, despite the forecast of rain, it was going to be a beautiful day (she was also right).
Then came a McDonalds drive thru with an incredibly cheerful attendant, who seemed genuinely happy to be providing us with 1 tea and 1 mocha with whip for our journey to my grandmother's house.
On our drive to visit Grandma in rural Minnesota (Comfrey, MN pop: 367 ) drivers kept waving at us...even though they didn't even know us...crazy!
Similarly, on my morning run at my parents' house in Owatonna, numerous runners, bikers, and dog walkers said hello and waved and an older gentleman told me to "go faster" with a smile and a high 5.
As we were leaving campus at the end of the weekend, the man at the college bookstore excitedly rang up my St. Olaf merchandise, and smiled at me as though I were the first person to ever purchase a St. Olaf license plate cover (at St. Olaf...in the bookstore...on the 3rd day of a reunion weekend).

And so I returned to DC on Sunday night with a renewed sense of "friendly, caring, positive" and with a distinct fear of falling back into the old pattern of "not friendly, caring or positive".

How was I going to hold on to this energy in a place where so many every day interactions are at worst hostile and at best indifferent?

At lunch time I found my answer in the little deli in the building next to our office. As I walked up to the counter to purchase my food I was greeted by the store owner's booming voice and thick Korean accent,

"Hello Miss Banana Diet Coke! Where were you on Friday - we missed you!"

I almost started to cry right then and there.

Even here, in the greater DC area, friendliness can be found in the most unexpected of places - apparently, all you have to do is buy the exact same lunch every single day for 5 years
(and steer clear of causing metro delays...for ANY reason).

lack of sleep = bad decision = lack of sleep = I should have watched more "Saved by the Bell"

2011-05-18T10:03:00.000-07:00

One recent afternoon, I found myself sitting, exhausted, with a pounding headache and a gazillion day-old and half-thought-through ideas wandering through my head.
I had to ask myself, "Faith, what led you to this point?"
And the voice of reason (who tends to answer the obvious questions I ask myself) answered:
"Duh, Faith, you didn't learn from Jessie's mistake."
(That would be Jessie Spano, from "Saved By the Bell", and the voice of reason was 100% correct.)

It's a widely known and accepted fact that 7 hours of sleep is ideal for most adults. One would think that a responsible 32 year old woman who (aside from a strong weakness for nachos and white cake with white icing) generally makes healthy lifestyle decisions would be fully capable of reaching this ideal.

That's what one would think.

For 7 hours of sleep, I would need to go to bed at 10:15 pm.
I consistently attempt to make this bedtime deadline and those attempts generally go something like this:

9:00 - Turn off the tv and head towards the bathroom to start brushing my teeth.

9:05 - After flossing but before gargling, realize that I haven't checked the weather for the next morning.
This is super important because if there is rain in the forecast, I can't run outside and will need to get up earlier in order to get to the workout room asap to lay claim on one of the 5 treadmills.
The 5:30 treadmill crowd at my building is a pretty dedicated bunch and you have to get there by 5:25 at the very latest to stake claim on a machine - 5:15 to get one with a working tv which, let's face it, is key to a good workout.
(What's that you are saying? Walk two blocks to the gym where I actually pay a membership and could use one of 20 treadmills - all of which have working tvs? That's not the point.)

9:08 - Clear skies - an outside run it is! Of course, while the IPad is out and on I have to check email really quickly...and facebook...and play a few screens of Angry Birds....and one round of Snood.

9:28 - The weather channel did say it was going to be chilly, so I should find and lay out my hat for the run tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, the hat is somewhere in our mess of a closet with the scarves, mismatched gloves, the cat leash (I know, I know, a leash for a cat - ridiculous right?), rain poncho, 2,000 different brands of running belts (only two of which I actually use), the bright yellow non-working umbrella and the bright pink umbrella that does actually work...needless to say, finding the hat takes a while.

9:37 - Ding! Clothes dryer is done. I guess I could leave my stuff in the dryer until tomorrow morning but by then everything will be cold and wrinkled and un-wearable (well, un-wearable without ironing and who wants to do that) so it's probably better to just take them out and fold them here and now.

9:46 - Putting my clothes away, I notice how messy my closet is so I decided to take out a few things, refold them and put them back because I don't want to wake up to a disorganized closet.

9:58 - Look - it's that purple sweater I forgot I bought a month ago! Wow, it will look really nice with my gray pants (which is, I think, why I bought it in the first place). I could totally wear it tomorrow, but I should try them both on - just to make sure it looks right. I don't want to count on wearing it, find that it looks stupid, and have to go back to the drawing board with 4 minutes to get to work.

10:10 - The purple sweater doesn't look so great with the gray pants but it probably looks ok with the black skirt - better try that on too.

10:15 - I wonder if anybody has commented on my facebook post....should probably check.

10:30 - Head towards the bathroom to brush my teeth

11:00 - in bed.

Unsuccessful.

So, as you can see, hitting my target bedtime is a bit of a problem, and because coffee, diet coke and green tea no longer have any effect (through constant exposure to caffeinated beverages, my body has chemically adapted and proves immune to their power - sort of like a superhero - at least that's how I like to think of it), I have been known to, in those after-lunch hours, get a tad....bit....sleepy.

And that is where Jessie Spano comes into the picture.
I'm sure you all remember the very special episode of "Saved By the Bell" in which Jessie, in her quest to get into Stanford, becomes addicted to caffeine pills during finals week?
Remember, Zach confronts her and she breaks down "I'm so excited... I'm so excited.... I'm so... scared." (if you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about - the incredibly overdramatic clip can be found on youtube).

Now, before you jump to any conclusions, I am not, and have never been, addicted to caffeine pills.
(Special note to my mother: Mom, don't worry! I do still have the slight addiction to diet coke, of which I know you strongly disapprove, but I am not at all addicted to caffeine pills)
I do, however, keep a very small bottle on hand for those times of extreme sleepiness.
They are only used on the really rare occasion that the normal tactics (a quick walk to the front of the office and back, a piece of candy, an email to a friend, an unpleasant gulp of the really concentrated sludgy afternoon coffee) don't work.
Even then, I only take 1/2 a pill.

But, see, there was that day (the day before the day of the pounding headache, as a matter of fact), when I was experiencing the before mentioned "extreme sleepiness".
This wasn't just the "blah, I'm sleepy and can't concentrate" sort of sleepy. No, this was serious.
This was a sleepy I have only felt once before...
Picture it:
Winter 1999.
An 8 am class at St. Olaf College.
The Minnesota snow falling gently outside the window. A cozy classroom of only 20 students.
A psychology lecture (a required course - not my major and not something I was terribly interested in).
Faith in an epic (and embarrassingly obvious) battle (in the front row, directly in front of the professor) to keep her eyes from shutting.
It was one of the most painful hours I have ever experienced - much more painful than any of the marathons I've run.

So yes, this was serious.

I took a 1/2 pill
and then...
against my better judgement I took the other 1/2
and then...
I don't really remember the rest of the afternoon.
BUT I do know that I got a whole, whole lot done (whether it was done well, I cannot confirm).

And the productivity didn't stop there. Afterwards, I drove straight to Washington Lee High School to swim!!!
(normally going to the pool to swim laps would not warrant three exclamation points, but I had a whole lot of artificial energy and was really excited)

My plan was to swim 4 sets of 20 laps - normally, about an hour.

2 hours of laps later I had thought through a lot:
I had decided to take some Arlington Adult Education classes (the abc's of investing, beginning guitar, basic car repair).
I had made a firm commitment to get back into scrapbooking (and mentally sorted through some pictures for ideas for pages).
I had planned a trip through Europe.
I had drafted a blog (which, incidentally, you will never see because when I sat down to actually write it, it made absolutely no sense).
I thought of a great way to re-arrange a few pieces of furniture in the apartment.
I resolved to take golf lessons in preparation for retirement in 30 years.
I decided that I would read a book a week and decided on the first 4 (doubtful, seeing as how I currently average a book every 3-6 months).

I was also still only on my first set of 20 laps (not even halfway through my workout).

With all of the caffeine-induced planning, I kept losing track of what lap I was on.
I was enjoying the overall experience so much that every time I lost track, I just started back at lap one.
It seemed perfectly logical at the time.

Who knows how many laps I actually wound up swimming that night, but it was one heck of a workout.

When I eventually got home, I was so tired that I actually made it to bed by the 10:00 deadline.
Unfortunately, physically tired and mentally tired are two very different things and the concentration of caffeine still buzzing around in my system prevented any actual real sleep.
So, I woke up the next morning a gazillion times more tired than I had been the day before, with a headache, with a blog idea that made no sense, and with several new personal goals that I might be able to reach....eventually...as long as I start going to bed at 10:00 and stop taking caffeine pills (even in emergencies).

Incidentally, I did add one additional goal to the list - re-watch all 5 seasons of "Saved By the Bell".
There could very well be other life lessons to re-learn.
(see the blog from Nov 2009 for another lesson learned - or not learned - from television shows of the '80s/'90s)

Just be nice!

2011-04-07T10:09:00.000-07:00

A friend once told me about a visit from her younger sister, who had recently moved from Iowa to New York City and was in DC for a visit. They were in a cab on their way to dinner one night when her sister proceeded to bossily direct the cab driver on the quickest route (did I mention she wasn't from DC?) and then, upon arrival at the restaurant, claimed the he was overcharging them for the ride. As the driver pulled away, apparently before she was ready for him to leave, she swung her bag at the trunk with a thump. My friend, horrified by her little sister's transformation from a polite midwesterner to a noticeably hostile city girl, just shook her head, stared at the ground, and full of frustration asked, "Megan, why can't you just be nice?"

Sometimes the words of my friend ring through my mind as I ask myself, with the same sense of surprise and frustration, "Faith, why can't you just be nice?"

No, I don't assault cab drivers, or anybody at all, for that matter (if you read my last blog, you know that I'm far too averse to conflict to display anything close to that sort of behavior).
It's never premeditated.
It's never outright mean.
I usually do my very best to make up for it.
BUT when it comes to the everyday, spur of the moment stuff, I am sometimes surprised to find that my immediate response to a situation isn't exactly what I would like it to be.

Do you need an example? I'll give you three.

Scenario 1:
A person is standing outside my apartment building (which is controlled access and requires a fob to get in the front door) waiting for a nice person with a fob to come along and let them in (or at least let them sneak in behind).
Nice thing to do: Smile and let them in - even hold the door for them - maybe even say hello.
What Faith does: First, consider going to the back entrance simply to avoid letting the stranger (who obviously has evil intentions) into the building but, instead, decide to let them follow me in.... not happily though (and without a smile), making it clear that I do not approve of unauthorized visitors.
In retrospect Faith asks herself: Why couldn’t you have just been nice? Maybe they knew somebody in the building. Maybe they live in the building and forgot their key. Maybe one day in the not so distant future you will have forgotten your fob and will need somebody (without judgment) to let you in. At the very least, a smile wouldn’t have hurt.

Scenario 2:
I am on a plane, on my way to somewhere with sunshine and a beach (a girl can dream, right?). Somebody sits down in the seat next to me and, with a smile, asks how I am doing.
Nice thing to do: Start a conversation - make a new friend.
What Faith does: Answer their questions (but in such a way that it does not encourage any further conversation), put on my headphones and pull out the April Cosmo.
In retrospect Faith asks herself: Why couldn't you have just been nice? You could have had a really nice conversation and made a new friend but instead you spent the entire flight reading a stupid article about how some random actress is the new Hollywood "It Girl" and what fitness plan she swears by.
(I actually generally come to this conclusion around 1/2 way through the flight at which point attempting to re-start a conversation would be, well, awkward.)

Scenario 3:
I am driving down Fairfax Ave, a road that just happens to have a ton of crosswalks but very few lights, making said crosswalks less like places where cars have to wait for pedestrians and more like places where pedestrians have to wait for cars.
Nice thing to do: Stop the car and allow the poor pedestrian (who has likely been waiting for an extremely long time) cross to the other side.
What Faith does: Drive on through with the rest of the cars.
In retrospect Faith asks herself: Why couldn't you have been nice? Would it have really taken that much time out of your day to let somebody walk across the street? Set an example for other drivers! Initiate the "Stop for Fairfax Crosswalks" revolution of nice-ness!
(Note: I run on this road every morning so I'm often the pedestrian waiting...does that make it any better? I didn't think so.)

I know that my behavior in these scenarios isn't actually all that bad - I get that. The thing is, it's not about how big or small the act, it's about the thought (or, more accurately, the lack of thought) behind it.
I wish that I automatically did the nice, helpful, courteous thing. I want it to come naturally.
I want to be so nice that conversations about me to go something like this:
Person 1: Gosh, that Faith, she is so nice!
Person 2: Isn't she? so thoughtful and caring.
Person 3: Practically an angel.
Person 4: Always putting everyone else's needs before her own.
Person 5: She's a saint.
Person 6: I agree - like Mother Teresa.
Person 7: Right, but not in a showy way. She's just naturally that nice!
Person 8: It's amazing isn't it?

So, yeah, that's what I'm aiming for - basic sainthood.

The problem is, when given a simple opportunity to just be nice, I fall short.
I always seem to wind up back at "Faith, why can't you just be nice?".

I was mulling over this very personality issue on a recent Saturday afternoon as I was driving to Target. I'm not sure how it came up - I probably cut somebody off and then felt bad about it (or something along those lines) - but it was on my mind.

I pulled into the parking lot (packed, as would be expected on a Saturday afternoon at Target) and immediately noticed a man staring, perplexed, at his expensive looking car, which was precariously parked in a way that implied it was stalled. I passed him a couple of times as I circled the lot, thinking "I wonder if he's leaving soon so I can get to that spot he is blocking". It wasn't until I saw other, nicer, Target shoppers lining up behind his bumper that I realized a more appropriate reaction might have been "I wonder if he needs any help."

As the group of 3 or 4 volunteers began to push the car to a safer location, I started to scold myself, "Faith, why can't you just...."
when I noticed the car owner's expression turn from gratitude to concern to sheer panic. What the rest of us could see, but the enthusiastic volunteers (head down and full of focus) could not see was that they were pushing the stalled car, with a world of good intention and a fair amount of speed, directly into another parked car...leaving the owner of the stalled car with a stalled, dented car and an insurance nightmare.

The road to sainthood can be a tricky road to navigate...perhaps, for now, I'll focus on small tasks such as holding doors, stopping at crosswalks, and not assaulting cab drivers who overcharge.

Assertive (sort of)

2011-01-21T10:04:00.000-08:00

As I sat in the little office at the gym up the hill from my apartment building, waiting for the credit card machine to print out my receipt for signature, I stared at the gym membership packet with its list of fees thinking to myself, “Dammit Faith, why can’t you just be assertive?”

It’s a question that comes up a lot in conversations I have with myself.

Sitting on the phone with a telemarketer who is trying to sell me any number of things I don’t need or want.
“Faith, be assertive! – tell him that you appreciate the call but aren’t interested and immediately hang up the phone!”
…But no, I listen to the entire speech, thank him for calling, and tell him that it would be fine to add me to the mailing list.

Watching somebody cut in one of the three lines at Cosi (salad line, sandwich line, pay line)
“Faith, be assertive! – just tap them on the shoulder and explain that the end of the line is actually waaaay back there.”
…But no, I just stare at the back of their head with an extremely mean look on my face (a look they cannot see because they have successfully cut in line and are now IN FRONT of me).

Or, most recently, at the “Fitness First” up the hill from my apartment where I found myself sitting in an office with an extremely cheerful salesperson after my free (although, in the end, not so free) complementary workout session.
“Faith, just be assertive! – tell her, “thank you, but I think I’ll go back and continue use the fitness center in my apartment building (the fitness center that I technically pay for every month when I pay my rent)”
…But no, I sign the paperwork, hand over my credit card, and tell myself that access to kettle bells and step classes will be a really nice addition to the running, swimming and yoga that I already do (none of which require a start-up fee).

Assertive people are the go-getters of the world, speaking their mind, challenging rules, guarding their rights….and also, incidentally, generally getting exactly what they want.
Assertiveness is a characteristic that I see and admire in the most dynamic and successful people I know.
Assertiveness is also a characteristic that I, Faith Korbel (dedicated introvert, pacifist, and, ok I admit, wimp) have never developed.

I like peace and I like harmony, I want everyone to believe that I’m happy and that they are happy and that we are all good (even if we aren’t).
I don’t want to question people or push people or make people mad.
Besides, assertiveness can very easily lead to conflict and conflict is scary….and, as has been established, I’m a wimp.

So, after 32 years of being me, of this one thing I can be sure:
When presented with an opportunity to be assertive, you will generally find me running in the opposite direction (probably on the Fitness First treadmill that I am now contractually obligated to use for the next 12 months).

That said, you can imagine my surprise when I very recently, quite out of nowhere and without even really trying, was *assertive*

What was it, you ask, that brought out this new side in Faith? What forced her to break away from the need to be pleasing and to stand up to the system?
Was it a cause she believed in? (Ummmm….not exactly).
Was it in defense of a person she cares about? (Well, no).
Was she standing up to one of the many injustices in the world? (I really wish I could say yes but….no, no it wasn’t).

It was customer service at amazon.com.

It started with 17 Wilson Jones 21 Pocket Portfolios required for a project at work (and needed quickly).
Being a smart and saavy assistant, I found the perfect portfolios on amazon, added 17 to my shopping cart, chose next day delivery, and confidently clicked “complete order” – done and done.
Except, not done.
Arriving in several installments over the course of the next 2 days, were 7 boxes of portfolios that looked nothing like the picture on amazon.
Some were black, some were blue, all of them had the wrong handle and the dividers had all kinds of crazy labels (none of which applied to our project). Sigh.

Annoying yes, but easy enough to fix, right? I went back to the Amazon website and completed the entire return online, printing out return statement, repackaging the boxes, and setting everything out for UPS to pick up – done and done.
Except, not done.
When our friendly UPS delivery guy came the next day he explained that Amazon had not alerted him of the pickup or sent him a return label.

The same thing happened the next day, and the next….7 boxes sitting there.

On the fourth day, Mr. UPS had a label – done and done.
Except, not done.
He just had one label….for one box…which left 6 sitting there.

Ok, well maybe I needed to fill out individual returns online for each box, which I did – done and done.
Except, not done.
Again, Mr. UPS had just one label…for one box…5 boxes left.

On the sixth day – he had another label...for one box…4 boxes left.

I had no problem with the boxes leaving slowly – I just wanted to them to leave – so I waited patiently.
Except the labels stopped coming, and 4 boxes still remained.
Before Christmas – they were there.
After Christmas – they were still there.
The boxes greeted me every morning as I walked through the door of the office “Hello, Faith, we are still here…yep, nobody has picked us up yet…just sitting here…waiting to go back.”

Ok, so maybe it was time to call.
Finding a telephone number on the amazon website is not easy, but I’m stronger in the persistence department than in the assertive department.

Call #1 was helpful.
The gentleman made it clear that I had royally screwed up the online return system (and, according to their records, had returned one very large box of portfolios 3 times) and promised that UPS would pick up all remaining boxes the next day. I apologized for messing up their system, admitted it was completely my fault, and thanked him for his help (I even gave him all 10s on the survey that arrived via email 3 minutes after our conversation) – done and done.
Except, not done.

Rather than go into many more details, let’s just say that the next 5 days was blur of boxes coming, boxes going, repackaging boxes in new combinations, confused looks from the UPS guy, confusing conversations with a number of amazon representatives …and, finally, an official offer from amazon: Keep the remaining portfolios (use them, donate them, throw them out – whatever you want to do) free of charge. We will return all of your money, just, please, please, please stop calling us!

Phew! It was over. I had survived yet another life experience without having to be assertive. Another example of how being nice pays off in the end, right? – done and done.
Except not done.

About a week after the ordeal, I decided to check my credit card bill online, just to make sure everything was good to go.
As I pulled up my account I was perplexed to find 17 separate deductions of $13.99.
They had clearly re-charged me for the 17 portfolios!
After all of that frustration they are now not reimbursing me but re-charging me?
This is what I get for all of my patience?
This is what I get for nicely explaining the situation 10 gazillion times to 10 gazillion different customer service representatives and completing 10 gazillion customer service surveys (always giving all 10s).
This is what being nice gets you?

It was time to be assertive.
It was time to demand an explanation.
It was time to stop avoiding conflict and get back what was mine!

With a newfound, and unexpected, sense of determination/customer superiority and a copy of my credit card statement in my hand, I picked up the phone and dialed the customer service number I had come to know so well.
I told the customer service agent (with my seldom-used authoritative voice) that there was clearly some sort of mistake.
I explained that the entire return process had been a nightmare and that now they (her included) were taking my money!

The customer service agent calmly promised to help me but then, reviewing my order information, insisted that they had definitely not charged more money but had without question returned money to my account.

Ok, now I was going to go for it – now the assertive Faith was going to take over the conversation.
I mentally started to charge myself up:
This was ridiculous!
Amazon.com was calling me a liar!
They were challenging my integrity!
I was 100% in the right in this situation – a victim in the truest sense.
Was I not looking at my credit card statement?
Were there not 17 deductions of……..

And at that moment, as I was about to launch into a customer-is-always-right, holier than thou, completely assertive, argument with the sole representative of the evil company that was definitely trying to bring me down, I suddenly realized that I was 100% wrong.

You see, at that moment, something became clear to me that would have been completely clear to pretty much anybody else on the planet:
I was looking at a credit card statement - not a checking account statement.
Deductions from a credit card statement mean that you are being reimbursed, not that money is being taken out of an account. Yep, the fact that the balance is getting smaller is a GOOD thing.

I thanked her for her help, hung up the phone and waited for the inevitable customer service survey to arrive in my inbox (yes, I gave her all 10s).

Lesson of the day:
Assertiveness is a characteristic that I, Faith Korbel, have never developed.
Apparently common sense is a characteristic that doesn’t come easily to me either.
Perhaps, it would be best to not pursue the first until I have mastered the second.

Thanks for listening - if you need me to be assertive, I’ll be up the hill at my new gym, running as far away as the treadmill will take me.

A very hungry cat

2010-09-16T10:10:00.000-07:00

I used to wake up every morning to the typically obnoxious sound of a cell phone alarm.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeep.

These days I , instead, greet the day with the new and equally obnoxious sound of a hungry little white, brown and gray drama queen by the name of Mo.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. MEEOOOOOW.

The sounds are slightly different, but similar in their urgency. One you can turn off…one you most certainly cannot.

Early on, we had an understanding with Mo – every morning, I would wake up for my run around 5:15 and feed her. She would hear my alarm and, knowing that her breakfast would quickly follow, excitedly (yet quietly) met me in the kitchen. It was nice to wake up to a loving little individual, trotting around in anticipation.

After a few months of this cuteness, she must have noticed that I sometimes hit the snooze button and, in order to ensure that I woke up to the alarm the FIRST time, began running into the bedroom and jumping on the bed the minute the beeping began. Still cute.

After a few more months (apparently noticing that I had learned to ignore her presence) she decided to add the meow to her routine… at first a faint “Ummm, excuse me, Faith, but would you mind getting up and feeding me?” developing slowly into a full-powered “Seriously, I’m not kidding – get out of bed and feed me – Faith…Dave….anybody….hello?.”.

For a short period of time she actually started meowing in anticipation of the alarm (by approximately 5 minutes) – it would appear that was just a phase (thank goodness).

It’s not fun to greet the day to the intense and constant stare of a hungry cat but the morning is nothing compared to her afternoon feeding time. On the days that Dave is working from home, she starts bugging him around 4 pm. This involves meowing, yes, but it also involves pretending to try to eat inedible things: plants, paper, whatever happens to be on the floor – “Look at me, Dave, I’m SOOO hungry that I’m about to eat your computer cord…you’ll feel really bad when I eat this plastic plant…it’s ok, take your time, I’ll just be over here, eating these packing peanuts.

Let me emphasize “pretending to try to eat” because we have never had any evidence that she actually does eat any of the objects - and we both watch carefully.

Then are the days that Dave is traveling and she is forced to wait until I get home from work. As bad as I’m sure she is at 4, something happens to her in the two hours between 4 and 6 pm – a transformation from cord-eating, yes, but still cute Mo into a crazy-eyed little monster driven to the very brink of insanity by the need to eat. I can hear her meowing impatiently the minute I exit the elevator and as I walk down the hallway of the apartment building (which is probably lovely for the neighbors). When I open the door, I find her walking in circles, meowing to herself - the translation likely being something along the lines of: “bad, bad owner….starving cat…going to collapse…can’t take it much longer.…can barely stand up…so…hungry”)

Now, before anyone accuses us of being neglectful owners or making light of a hungry cat, let me assure you that Mo is more than adequately fed. In fact, in the first 6 months she lived with us, she gained 2 lbs and 2 lbs is not insignificant when you only started out at 11.

She is not, I repeat, she is not starving and certainly does not need to look to computer cords or plastic plants or packing material for nourishment – she is simply a drama queen and I told her that every night as I fed her until…

I had a doctor’s appointment not all that long ago.

I hate doctor’s appointments. There’s nothing wrong with going to see the doctor. In fact, being a self-diagnosed hypochondriac (is it ironic to describe yourself as a "self-diagnosed hypochandriac"...or is it just accurate?), I actually really like seeing the doctor because I get to ask LOTS of questions about conditions that I’m sure I have. What I hate is having to spend my lunch hour doing something other than, well, other than eating my lunch.

I’m a creature of habit - I eat my lunch at noon every day, at my desk, and it always consists of a diet coke, a banana, wheat thins and fig newtons (I know you don’t approve mom – sorry J). I have eaten this lunch, at this time, and in this location 5 days a week, for the past 5 years. I think people at work might think that I’m not able to afford a real lunch, but that isn’t the case. No, in truth I really, really like wheat thins, fig newtons, bananas and diet coke and I get really hungry at exactly noon every day.

This lunch at this time is actually something I look forward to every single day(honestly).

So, having this doctor’s appointment at noon was seriously messing with my noon lunch….and that made me crabby.

I was even crabbier as I found that the doctor’s office was running behind schedule and my noon appointment turned into a 12:15 appointment or maybe a 12:30 appointment…12:45? Seriously?
Sitting in the waiting room, my stomach growled more and more with every second. I stared at the book in my hand but I wasn’t reading, not really reading.
I may have been staring at the words on the page but I was thinking about the lunch that I wasn’t eating - the banana, the wheat thins, the diet coke.
Other patients were getting called in left and right but I just sat there waiting…waiting….waiting.
I could feel myself getting weaker and weaker.
Could the receptionist hear my stomach growling? Did she realize how hungry I was? Did she know how cruel she was being?
I was actually starting to compare myself to the starving people in Africa from the Sally Struthers adds (not even close…I know, I know).
Just sitting there….staring…waiting….hungry.
It all seemed so unfair.
The woman sitting next to me came in a good 20 minutes after me and believe you me, I was paying close attention to when people were arriving and when they were getting called. If she had been called in before me I’m certain I would have started crying right then and there.
What if I actually collapsed right then and there in the middle of their waiting room? Would that teach them a lesson about making a person wait 45 minutes!

But then – the sky of cleared, the sun came out and choirs of angels sang as the nurse stepped into the waiting room and called my name.

I saw the doctor, asked way fewer questions than normal (which, clearly, made him happy), and was out of the office in record time. Back in the office with 5 minutes to spare, I sat down to my wheat thins with joy in my heart.

Nothing was different when I stepped off the elevator that night. I could hear Mo meowing instantly and knew I would face her angry and impatient stare the moment I walked through the door.
I fed her quickly and without a single mention of her diva behavior as that particular night she didn’t seem like quite so much of a drama queen.

Once upon a time on the metro

2010-08-04T09:22:00.000-07:00

I once heard a funny story.
I can’t guarantee it happened in DC…or that it happened at all, actually…but I like the story enough that I don’t really care if it’s true or not.

Once upon a time, during the evening weekday rush, a metro car full of weary DCers was making its way along the blue line, moving deeper and deeper out into the Virginia suburbs . Although the crowd thinned with every stop, it was still a packed car with some riders unhappily forced to stand. Despite the large number of people, the car was, in true metro fashion, silent. Some passengers napped, some read the newspaper or books, others played games on their cell phones….anything to occupy the time without interacting with other people.

As the train pulled to a halt at one of the above ground stops and a group of riders methodically stepped off and headed home, nobody noticed the small passenger who stepped on board.

Well, nobody noticed until the train started moving and…...
MASS CHAOS ERUPTED
Women yelled
Men screamed
Some passengers jumped on the seats
Some passengers tried to scurry up the poles
Some passengers even tried to climb on top of other passengers
All of this craziness, as a small squirrel tore up and down the aisle of the car at an alarming speed, running under people’s feet, brushing people’s legs, running over seats, moving like a tornado without a predictable path and causing 2-3 minutes of complete commotion…

until the next stop, when the doors opened and the little metro rider ran out onto the platform and, presumably, home for dinner (an enviable 1 stop commute).

Silently, the passengers took only a second to collect themselves. People stepped down off of the seats and picked up their books, slid down the poles and grabbed their bags and briefcases, politely whispered “sorry, excuse me” to the people they had been standing on top of and glanced quickly back at their blackberries to see if they had missed any important texts or emails.

By the time the doors closed and the train started moving towards the next stop, everything was silent once again.

You see, here in DC, we like our metro quiet. We like it calm. We like it impersonal.

We don’t want to interact with other people (or even other animals as the case may be) and we try, if possible, to acknowledge each other as little as possible.
It’s not because we are mean or cold-hearted or even grumpy – we just like to keep our public transportation experience, well, private.

As a result, the DC metro system is a lot of things (clean, mostly reliable, efficient) but one thing it is not (and, quite frankly, would never claim to be) is overly friendly.

The following is a not-as-funny story.
I guarantee it’s true….I was there.

It was roughly 8:30 pm on a Monday night and everyone on the station platform looked as though they had just experienced the longest, hardest day of their entire life (at least one person in the group may have actually had the hardest day of his or her life, but most of us have just worked hard at perfecting the look) and wanted, more than anything, to be home.

We were gathered at the Metro Center Station, which is a connector station for three lines. This means that there are often lots of people waiting to get on trains. On the flip side, because it is a connector station, lots of people often get off of the arriving train. This creates a little game as a person standing on the platform can expect a fair number of seats to be available but can also expect to have a lot of competition for those available seats.

As the train arrives and people start stepping off, anticipation mounts and tension builds amongst those waiting to board. Of course, everyone really wants to plow through the crowd, knocking over anyone in their path (including the people coming off the train)…but that would be rude. Instead, we all stand off the side, watching passengers exit the train, trying hard to appear cool, calm and collected while, in actuality, mapping the best route to the perfect seat and secretly wishing that everyone standing in our way would accidentally trip and fall (not enough of a fall to hurt themselves….of course not...just enough of a fall to, you know, slow them down).

It’s a hundred little internal battles of good and evil occurring with the arrival of each train – and nobody is immune.
I might take this moment to explain that my entire trip involves 4 stops (approximately 10 minutes) which is not a long ride. I spend a good deal of my life running long distances and am in good enough shape to stand for 10 minutes. That’s not the point. It’s a game. I wanted a seat and, at that moment, believed that I deserved one just as much (if not more) than everyone else waiting. See, that’s what waiting for the metro does to a person – it becomes personal.

On this particular night, I was in the middle of the pack, meaning that I was on the cusp of sitting or standing. There wasn’t much I could do (within the boundaries of being polite) to make it happen. It was up to fate.

After the doors had opened and everyone had filed off the train, the process of boarding began. I watched helplessly as seats were claimed one-by-one.
The entire time, I had my eyes focused on one empty seat …which was empty…empty…empty…until, you guessed it, the man walking right in front of me plopped down with a smile.

I fully appreciate the women’s rights movement. I like having a job, making my own money and voting, but on the metro, at the end of the long day, I wouldn’t mind being given a seat just for the simple fact that I am a girl. I’m not above playing that card.
Apparently the man in “my” seat was more of a dedicated feminist than I as he took “my” seat without a moment’s hesitation.

The train pulled away and I stared with annoyance at the back of the head of the man in “my” seat (which is passive aggressive and pretty much pointless - I realize this - but for some reason it always makes me feel better), when the man sitting next to him suddenly drew my (and everyone else’s) attention. As the train rumbled forward the perfect silence of people reading their books and playing their games was broken abruptly as the man stood up and posed the question,
“Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?”

Ok, it was kind of funny. There was some muffled laughter as three or four people even responded with “But of course”.
An amusing little metro moment and, as soon as it was over, we all went back to our articles, books and silence.

Approximately 15 seconds later, the same man, still standing, again asked “PARDON ME, would you have any Grey Poupon?”
Fewer people looked up this time but one or two people still answered “But of course”, and couple of people laughed again (this time a nervous, “ok, please, please don’t ask again” kind of laugh).

Clearly unhappy with the dwindling response, he asked for a third time (louder) “Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?”. The metro car had now had enough of his little game - we (as a collective unit) were done. All eyes were focused hard on the closest book, newspaper or phone and any lost souls without passable reading material, looked out the car windows (not a believable diversion as the trains are underground and the “view” consists of a very dark wall). The only person who could not avoid our questioner’s gaze, the one person who had no choice but to answer, was the person sitting right next to him….in “my” seat.
“But, of course” he muttered less than enthusiastically, staring at the ground.

I will admit to an ounce of satisfaction – that will teach him to take a seat from girl.

The next four stops were an uncomfortable and annoying repetition of that initial 1 ½ minutes. At each stop a few new riders would board, bringing new life to the joke until about a minute into the ride after they had heard it 3 or 4 times and the only person responding was the man in my seat (who, by now, was answering with a change in intonation making it more of a sad sounding question “But, of course?” as in, “What do you want me to say???”)

At one point, the gentleman explained loudly to his seat-mate (and anyone else who could hear him) that he was simply trying to “foster community” and “bring people together” in a city where everyone was “closed off” and “unfriendly”. I did appreciate his point…but his approach didn’t seem to be working.

Although, then again, with the arrival of my stop and my walk towards the exit, I started to notice things.
As I walked by the man sitting in my seat, my former enemy, I smiled sympathetically…yes, he had taken “my” seat, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Normally, as I exit the train I stare at the floor and walk as fast as possible to the escalators, but this time I enjoyed the walk (and my freedom), sharing a number of relieved glances with my fellow riders getting off. One of the women muttered “I thought this stop would never get here!” and we all laughed together, and even talked a little bit as we walked to the exit, which has never happened to me before in the metro.

So, there you have it, I guess that “fostering community” can take different forms – including mass annoyance via mustard commercials from the 1980s.

“Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?”

The bad day that never was

2010-02-10T11:19:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had one of those days when nothing goes your way?
When you just can’t get a break?
When the entire universe is working in perfect collaboration to make the simple task of making it through your day as painfully difficult as it could possibly be?

I recently did NOT have one of those days - despite all of my efforts and despite my shoes.

It did actually start out as a legitimately bad day.

I woke up to a furry ball of unpleasantness.
Mo the cat was up, she was hungry and her volume was set to high as her persistent meows loosely translated to “I’m hungry…I’m hungry….I’m hungry…I’m hungry…I’m hungry…I’m hungry…I’m hungry…I’m hungry….I’m hungry…I’m hungry…I’m hungry”…and so it began.

My mornings generally work like clockwork:
5:20-5:25 (depending on the day) – roll out of bed.
5:25 - put on running clothes.
5:30 - walk into Mo’s room, grab her bowl, walk to the kitchen and fill it with her stinky food.
5:35 - deliver full bowl of stinky food to the hungry cat (who is, at this point, near delusion and walking in circles muttering to herself).
5:37 - put on my running shoes (resisting the urge to curl up on the floor and sleep another 10 minutes)
5:40 - step out the door and start running.

This particular morning, however, the 5:35 spot took a turn for the worse.
I’m not completely sure how it happened but Mo’s beautiful ceramic bowl (full of stinky food) somehow leapt out of my hand and wound up crashing to the ground in the most spectacular of scenes, chips of black and white ceramic pieces scattering across the floor and spatters of smelly cat food covering the walls and cabinet.

In the aftermath I was left stunned and surveying the scene as Mo stared up at me with one of her looks.
No, it was not a look of fear over the shards of ceramic that could have easily hit her in the face.
No, it was not a look of sadness mourning her heavily anticipated food which, once so full of promise, was now spread across the bathroom wall.
It was instead a look of pure annoyance. In fact, I’m pretty sure, had she been able to convey her true feelings in words that I could understand, it would have sounded something like this:
“You are such a dumbass”
(please excuse Mo’s swearing– we are trying to break her of the habit which must have come from her former family).

15 minutes later, after sweeping and mopping the entire area as thoroughly as possible, washing down the walls and, of course, re-feeding the thoroughly annoyed cat, I walked out the door of the apartment for my run

I was now 20 minutes behind schedule.

Many of you know my thoughts on being passed while running. I don’t like it. In fact, if I know a runner is behind me, I will do everything in my power, regardless of how tired I am, how much faster they are, or how stupid I look, to stay ahead of them. It’s a sickness….I can’t control it.

I saw him coming as I made the turn onto Washington Blvd. He was moving fast but he was still about a block away - I sped up.
2 blocks later I casually looked back and noticed he had made up some time and was getting closer - I sped up some more.
2 blocks later I could hear his shoes hitting the pavement behind me - I was running just about as fast as I could.
“Focus, Faith, focus. Just keep going, do your best. It’s ok if he passes you. It’s just your pride. At least you haven’t done anything embarrassing like fall or…………..”
Thump.
I’m an expert at falling while running so the impact was mainly relegated to a scraped up palm and a black and blue left knee.
My ego definitely took the brunt of the tumble as I quickly stood up and tried really hard to look like I actually meant to hurl my body onto the sidewalk (you know, as part of the workout).

The runner asked me if I was ok as he ran by, but the look on his face looked a whole lot like the look Mo had given me only an hour earlier.

I was now 25 minutes late.

Of course I had nothing to wear to work.
There was one outfit that was passable but it had one serious flaw - SHOES.
I have a very limited selection of shoes. I do realize, in this post-Sex and The City world, being a girl and making a statement about not liking shoes makes me ineligible for the Carrie Bradshaw ideal to which all of us aim…but I really do hate shoes. I hate shopping for shoes, I hate picking out shoes and I hate spending more than, oh say, $25 on a pair of shoes.

This particular pair of shoes (my “the only shoes in the closet I can wear with a black or gray skirt” pair) has a history of causing problems - we have had, in short, a tumultuous relationship. They are nice looking shoes but they are also the single most uncomfortable shoes I have ever worn.
Cheaply made (they fit easily within my $25 per pair rule) and about a size too big (Payless was out of 8s…but they had plenty of 9s!), not only are they characteristically uncomfortable but could be considered dangerous – it’s hard to stay upright and in control when your feet are sliding around inside your shoe and your toes are clutching tightly, in a vain attempt to keep the shoes from falling off of your feet at every step.
I don’t know for sure but I have a strong suspicion that, while wearing these shoes, I look slightly ridiculous….sort of like a 4 year old clomping around in her mom’s high heels.

Despite our history and the pain they have inflicted, I was now WAY behind schedule and had no time to put together an alternative outfit. Concluding that both Mo and the runner were right about the whole dumbass thing, I slipped on the evil shoes and walked (or should I say clomped) out the door.

It was only 8 am and, as I walked towards the elevator reflecting on the 2 ½ hours I had already been up, I decided that it was quite simply going to be a terrible day. There was no avoiding it, it was pre-destined and I just had to deal with it.
That’s when it hit me – “Faith, don’t underestimate yourself. Anybody can have a terrible day – why not go all out and have a REALLY terrible day!”
This was my chance to claim every piece of bad luck that came along, to wallow in utter unpleasantness, to bask in negativity all day long.
I was going to be miserable and nobody was going to stand in my way.
Who knows, it might make a good blog, right? After all, the only thing better than having a bad day is sharing it with as many people as possible.

As I walked down the hallway, indulging myself in the possibilities of my decidedly awful day, I noticed that one of my fellow 8th floor residents was already waiting for an elevator. When I heard the ding of the door opening, I didn’t rush, figuring that she would be gone by the time I made it the 15 seconds down the hallway.

I should explain typical elevator etiquette in my building – a building full of young adults who are all extremely cool and extremely important.
- There are 4 elevators
- The elevators come fairly often.
- The hallways are straight (so you can see people coming a fair distance away).
- Sound carries (so you can hear people coming a fair distance away).
- Everyone is in a hurry.
- Most of us are decidedly not friendly.
The results: We are a building full of people who know that we are supposed to hold the elevator if somebody is coming down the hallway (and it’s hard to ignore when somebody is coming down the straight, silent hallway) and we all complain openly when somebody doesn’t hold the elevator for us, but, if tested, most of us will (knowing that people are coming) let the doors close.
In fact, we may even push the button to make them close faster.

That said, imagine my shock when I found the elevator door open and my neighbor cheerfully holding down the “doors open” button.
“Good morning!”, she exclaimed with an overly happy smile.
Hmmm, morning friendliness didn’t really go along with my terrible day.

The morning passed with coffee that tasted better than normal and a very nice email from a friend I haven’t seen in years.
Interesting turn of events but I refused to be swayed from my bad mood, confident that my normal noontime errands would bring plenty of unpleasantness.
I wasn't about to let other people influence my bad day.

As the afternoon approached, I ventured out the door to face the noontime errand rush. It would have been helpful if the weather had been bad, but it was surprisingly warm and sunny for this time of year.
I continued my shuffle up the hill in my uncomfortable shoes expecting the worst.

First stop, the post office to check a PO Box. I hadn’t been there for ages so I fully expected a nasty “Mailbox Full” note from the postmaster. This means that, in order to claim your mail, you have to stand in the consistently very long line, with all of the other crabby people who don’t want to be at a Post Office. At the end of the long line you will come face to face with one of three post office employees who don’t mind selling stamps and adding postage but REALLY don’t like having to go to the back and get piles of mail left by irresponsible delinquent PO Box renters. As they hand over your mail, you will likely be reminded harshly that you “should really rent a bigger PO Box…or check it more often.”
As I walked in the door I noticed that the line was especially long and I knew, just knew, my fate was sealed when…
*surprise*
no note! Instead of an empty box with a “come and get your stinking mail” note, I found a whole lot of mail crammed as tightly as possible into the tiny square box.
Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to moan about the physical condition of the mail - I’ll take roughed up envelopes over standing in line any day.
Ok, so the post office went ok, but I still had the bank and CVS.

Except there was nobody in line at the bank. I walked straight up to my favorite teller who asked me how I was doing and offered me a piece of candy.
I tried to be grumpy…but it’s hard to be grumpy when a rootbeer flavored sucker is involved.

CVS was out of my generic brand of crackers – finally something to complain about – oh, but right next to the empty shelf was little red sign announcing that the regular brand was on sale for close to the same price as the generic.
The pharmacy also had my prescription ready…early.

Trying hard not to be cheered up by the effortlessness of my errands, I turned the corner out of CVS, looked up at the metro exit, and stopped dead in my tracks.
Matching shirts – check.
Clipboards – check.
Bored facial expression – check.
Yep, Greenpeace canvassers. Crap!
Normally, at this point I would turn around and take the longer route around the other side of the building to avoid the dreaded “Excuse me, do you have a moment to help save the planet?” (a well-crafted question to which there isn’t an answer, other than yes, that doesn’t make you sound/ feel like a complete jerk). Today, though, was a bad day (or it was supposed to be a bad day) anyway so I figured why not?, shrugged my shoulders and walked straight into the fire.

Wouldn’t you know it, right at that moment a heard of people came up out of the metro and two of them (who, apparently looked more socially responsible than I) were targeted and approached.

Not even Greenpeace canvassers were cooperating with my bad day and it was starting to piss me off.

I still wasn’t ready to give in to the good luck that I couldn’t seem to shake.
After all, I still had to cross two of the scariest crosswalks in Arlington.
These crosswalks aren’t at intersections or stoplights so drivers normally pay very little attention and walkers often have to wait for long periods of time and/or risk their lives by crossing.
That’s right, there were still two big opportunities for me, as a walker, to feel victimized by and angry towards big bad scary drivers.
Crosswalk #1 – Not a single car coming in either direction.
Crosswalk #2 – A car was coming fast….but the driver saw me waiting to cross and stopped dramatically, waving me across with a smile.

Unbelievable! What was wrong with people?

Half expecting a rainbow to pop out and small animals to break into song, I passed the rest of the day coming to terms with the fact that my terrible day simply wasn’t meant to be.
As I defeatedly walked into my building, head hanging low, I realized that I still had one thing to complain about,
“Well, at least my shoes are still uncomfortable - I can always complain abou.....”
“Wow, I love your shoes!” said a girl holding the elevator, right on cue.

I was officially defeated. As the elevator door opened to my floor, I smiled and wished my fellow riders a good night, laughing at myself as I walked down the hallway.

I opened the apartment door to find Mo sitting at attention waiting for me to feed her her dinner of dry food. From the look on her face, her impression of me from the morning hadn’t changed.

It’s good to know that somebody has my back.

just one of the strong ones

2009-12-23T14:21:00.000-08:00

There are times in your life when outside forces push you to your limit and challenge you to your very core. These are the times that teach you how strong you really are.

Last weekend was one of those times...well, kind of...in a way.

For those of you who haven’t heard, on December 19th, we experienced the worst snow storm the DC area has seen in 100 trillion years (although, the man I sat next to on the metro a few days ago told me there was a storm about 10 years ago that was, in his words, “much, much worser” and, to be completely honest, I trust his opinion more than the Channel 7 weather team’s data).

From our 8th floor apartment window I watched helplessly as the snow accumulated to 50 feet ...or maybe 50 inches…or maybe 20 inches (in small section of West Virginia) and the gale force winds whipped up snow drifts as high as a tall building...or a car...or a small dog.

Then there was the aftermath of the storm: Arlington, a city/county in chaos.
Lack of Resources: As the snow was finally settling late Saturday evening, my brave boyfriend ventured into the savage wilderness in search of pre-prepared nourishment and found a measly 1 restaurant open -1 restaurant! Fortunately we both like Thai food but what if we didn't? huh? What then? What were the hungry young professionals of Arlington to do?

Scavengers: As of 4 pm on Sunday afternoon the grocery store had been wiped clean of essential products such as skim milk, potato chips (even the Safeway brand) instant hot cocoa mix and microwave popcorn. Yes, they still had Diet Coke, thank god.

Breakdown of Communication: On Sunday, desperate for world news, I braved the snow drifts and un-shoveled sidewalks, making it to CVS only to find that every single copy of People Magazine was gone…and US Weekly…and InStyle.

Isolation: Unable to drive to church on Sunday as normal, I took the metro and had to wait over 20 minutes for a train! 20 whole minutes on that cold, lonely platform.
Ok, it’s an indoor station so it wasn’t actually that cold, but it was lonely because Arlingtonians try really, really hard not to acknowledge one another.

But, despite everything, I made it through and, in the face of the fear and the devastation of the Storm of The Century, I even made it to work on Monday morning. Not many people can say that (ahem…federal government).

Sure, some of you will now make the point that the building I live in and the building I work in are technically connected by a parking garage. Yes, it is true that I don’t actually have to go outside in order to get to work. I would argue, though, that focusing merely on the physical challenge involved in my being at my desk at 8am is discounting the mental challenges of such a feat. People outside the DC area, those of you in Minnesota for instance (Mr. & Mrs. DeGriselles), who have never lived through a real winter storm may not completely understand the strength required to not just survive a catastrophe of such magnitude, but to also pick yourself up afterwards and get back to work.

It’s a strength I didn’t completely realize in myself until I saw, with my own eyes, the terrifying effects the storm had on one who apparently does not possess that same strength of mind.

After spending a morning at work (unlike some people - cough cough - federal goverment), I ventured back into the frigid 38 degree cold (33 degrees with the wind chill, thank you very much) and across the parking lot to visit the little store on the bottom floor of my apartment building to pick up my lunch time banana and diet coke. The only other person in the store was a gentleman who was picking up his drycleaning and attempting to purchase a bag of Doritos, bologna, and a Mountain Dew. He also appeared to be having a bit of a meltdown.

I couldn’t completely tell if the source of his frustration was (A) the fact that his total bill rang up to more than he would have liked, not uncommon at the little store where a box of Wheat Thins is approximately $6 or (B) The fact that the credit card machine was down. Either way, there was swearing and I think maybe a tear or two.

On a normal day, listening to a 25 year old man carry on like a 2 year old about having to take out a loan to pay for Doritos, would have tried my patience. It would have been difficult to avoid pointing out any combination of the following observations, all of which add up to the question “how bad can your life really be?”:

-You are grown man and you are having a temper tantrum.
-You are still in your sweat pants, Nike golf t-shirt and slippers and it is nearly 1 pm on a Monday.
-Judging from the number of dress shirts in your drycleaning, you have a job and don’t have to be there due to the sunny, clear, 38 degree, “inclement weather”.
-You are doing your grocery shopping in your slippers, which, I would think, warrants paying what I would consider a “convenience fee”.
-Unlike you, I am at work today and would like very much to pay for my overpriced banana and diet coke so I can get back to my job, but I can’t because the cashier is waiting for you to stop yelling and pay for your lunch meat.

Yes, on a normal day I would have considered pointing out these observations, however, the extreme circumstances of the previous weekend led me to hold my tongue and withhold judgement.

He was simply a victim and was still dealing with the demons.

I guess not everyone is as strong as I am.
Maybe he doesn’t like Thai food.

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

2009-11-17T09:53:00.000-08:00

Most of us are taught, from a young age, that telling a lie (even a small lie) often leads to larger problems.

My parents taught me well and anything I didn’t learn at home or in my father’s Sunday morning sermons was re-enforced by “The Facts of Life”, “Family Ties”, “The Cosby Show” and, of course, “Saved By the Bell”…Zach lied a lot and it never worked out well for him.

Somewhere along the line, though, it seems I turned my back on the good advice of my parents, Mrs. Garrett and Mr. Belding and ventured down the slippery slope of liar-dom.

Before you judge, let me clarify – we are not talking about earth-shattering lies (I don’t have a secret identity, a crime-ridden past, or even an overdue parking ticket).
The lies I find myself telling are only to people who I don’t know… in grocery stores and restaurants…who are trying to force me/guilt me into registering for some variety of a club/bonus card.

How is it that something designed to make my life easier, has driven me to ignore the wisdom of my own parents, Bill Cosby and the Keatons? Let’s just call it “card overload”.

I have a card for the drug store, a card for the ice cream store, a card for the video store, a card for the place I buy my running shoes, a card for the coffee shop, cards for 5 gazillion grocery stores, 2 pharmacies, a card for the book store, a card for the pet store, cards for at least 3 clothing stores and (the real kicker) two of my doctors’ offices (yes, doctors’ offices!) have even recently initiated a card system. My wallet is bulging, I’m getting more junk mail than ever before and I’m tired…so, so tired…of cards. I’m tired of having them, of registering them (even online) and of using them (and no, Giant Foods marketing team, the size of the card does not make a difference – the fact that you make a tiny card that fits on a key chain, while an improvement, is not the answer I’m searching for).

***Note: This little rant is in no way a critique of the following types of cards, which I have deemed as necessary: credit cards, debit cards, driver’s licenses, social security cards, metro cards, health insurance cards and any form of Target cards (right Carly? ). It should also not, in any way, be considered a critique of gift cards, which are lovely and which I am more than willing to carry around in a bulging wallet.

By the time Cosi started pushing their Cosi Cards I buckled down for a fight. I’m a value-oriented kinda girl and believe-you-me I could easily see how it would make complete money-saving sense to obtain and utilize the card (who am I to say no to the occasional free salad?), but I also knew myself and was well aware that just one more card could hit and exceed my card-carrying tolerance. One more card was going to push me completely over the edge.

Now we get to the lies:
I go to Cosi a lot. About 4 blocks from where I work/live and a favorite restaurant of both the people I work for and a favorite of the person I live with, it’s a nice chance to get out of the office or the apartment and see the friendly (albeit slightly flustered and often overwhelmed) faces of my friends behind the Cosi counter. It’s a crowded and chaotic place to be (especially around 12:15) but being a regular who generally orders the same thing, they know me well and my Shanghai Salad is practically made by the time I even say “Shanghai”.

The entire process is comfortable, familiar, and nice…until I get to the register. It’s there, at that counter, where I come face to face almost every visit with a very nice girl who asks me about my Cosi Card…and it’s there, my friends, where they lying begins.

The first 100 (that would be a rough estimate) times I was faced with the Cosi Card discussion, it went something like this:

Cosi Lady: Hello ma’am, what do you have today? (normal question)
Faith: A Shanghai Salad. (same old answer)
Cosi Lady: What kind of bread would you like? (normal question)
Faith: Wheat please. (same old answer)
Cosi Lady: Do you have your Cosi Card today?
Faith: No, not today. (“today” – implying that I do indeed have one but I just don’t have it with me today – this tactic often works when dodging the card situation)
Cosi Lady: Oh that’s too bad, your total is ____.

End of conversation – pay – go back to the office without a card.

Lie Count: 1
1) I did not have a Cosi card. (technically, this is more of an implied lie as I never actually stated that I had a card, but merely made it sound that way)

Life was good – we seemed to have an understanding.

Then, one day (completely out of nowhere) she pushed it a little bit further with…..
Cosi Lady: Do you have your Cosi Card today?
Faith: No, not today.
Cosi Lady: Ma’am, do you have a Cosi Card?
(Wait. What? Crap!)
Faith: Ummm……I,well, I think I took the form home with me once…didn’t fill it out…lost it….blah, blah, blah.
Cosi Lady: Would you like to register for a Cosi Card? You will get every 10th sandwich or salad free. (or something like that)
Faith: Oh gosh I would really like to but I can’t today because I’m running a little late.
Cosi Lady: Oh, ok, well maybe next time. Your total is ____.

End of conversation – pay – go back to the office without a card.

Lie count: 1
1) I wasn’t running late. (Again, not exactly a lie as I am often in a hurry to get back to the office. In too much of a hurry to fill out a registration form? Well, that’s debatable.)

This excuse lasted for another 25 or so visits until….
Cosi Lady: Oh good news, now you can take the card with you and register online! (Crap!)
Faith: Wow, that’s great. I’ll definitely do that.
Cosi Lady: Ok, here you go, just go to cosi.com to register - your total is ____.

End of conversation – pay – go back to office…this time with an unregistered card.

Lie count: 1
1) I had no intention of registering the card that had just been forced upon me. In fact, upon arrival back at the office, the card was immediately placed into my desk drawer never to be seen again.
(Not a lie- I honestly have not seen it since… even a month or so after when I actually looked for it. It’s officially been lost to the god’s of office desk drawers).

Well, she now knew that I was both in possession of a card and had the ability to register it. I quickly had to alter my story…
Cosi Lady: Do you have your Cosi Card today?
Faith: Oh no! I must have forgotten it! (doing my best to look truly upset as I rummage through my wallet and bag)
Cosi Lady: That’s too bad – well, remember to bring it next time so you can start collecting free sandwiches and salads.
Faith: Oh I definitely will. I can’t believe I keep forgetting it!
Cosi Lady: Ok, your total is ____.

End of conversation – pay – go back to office…without using card.

Lie count: 2 1/2
1) I did not forget the card. It was lost in a desk drawer.
2) I most likely would not have it the next time.
2 ½ ) I’m not nearly as absent-minded as I portrayed myself to be. (the ½ is to signify that this lie is slightly opinion-based)

The “I’m kind of flighty and keep forgetting my silly card” strategy worked for a while but then, again, the game changed…
Cosi Lady: Did you register your card online ma’am?
Faith: Yes. (Nope – lost in the desk drawer)
Cosi Lady: You know, I can actually use your telephone number to look up your card information and credit your purchases for today.
(Crap!)
Faith: Wow….that’s great. 703-340-2971 (I have no idea whose number this is)
Cosi Lady: Nothing seems to be coming up for that number. (shocking)
Faith: That’s so weird, I think that’s the number I used.
Cosi Lady: Hmmmm, well, maybe you should just go online and check when you get back. (with a look of judgement)
Faith: Gosh, yes I definitely will.
(with a look of guilt)

Busted.

Lie count: 4
1) I didn’t register the card online .
2) I completely made up a telephone number. I probably wouldn’t have even needed to but the question kind of caught me by surprise and, being trained not to give out my number, I just started spitting out random digits. I guess there was an outside possibility that whoever actually had the phone number I gave her did have a Cosi card and would have gotten credit for the purchase of my salad – that would have been a pleasantly positive outcome.
3) It wasn’t weird that my information didn’t coming up because a) I never registered and b) It was not my telephone number.
4) I wasn’t going to check online when I got back - that would be pointless since I was positive that I hadn’t registered the card….a card that had been lost in a desk drawer for 6 months.

And that, boys and girls, is how even the smallest of lies can create an ever growing web nearly impossible to untangle. In a desperate attempt to redeem my Cosi reputation, I went to a DIFFERENT Cosi location (where they don’t know me) and picked up a card, which I registered immediately (yes, using my actual telephone number) and now carry faithfully, in my overflowing wallet, with my 300 other cards. I’m expecting the rush of junk mail from various soup and sandwich/semi-fast food restaurants any day now but that is merely my penance – the price I have to pay in order to walk in the door and order my salad with dignity.

It’s not totally my fault – where was the very special episode of “The Facts of Life” in which Tootie or Natalie lied to get out of signing up for a bonus card?

a little bit of 5:30 am

2009-08-17T14:17:00.000-07:00

5:30 am just isn’t what it used to be.

When I was a DC resident, my 5:30 run involved conversations with bored security guards, motorcades , a National Mall at its emptiest and most peaceful, police helicopters, occasional protests, and, most importantly, random meetings with the wide assortment of characters you meet wandering around downtown DC at 5:30 am (sometimes good, sometimes bad and always a little bit strange).

As an Arlington resident, my 5:30 run involves doing my best to not acknowledge the other stone-faced runners who are doing their very best to ignore me as well, running around all of the overachievers rushing to be the first in the office (yes, there are actually people going to work at 5:30 am), and dodging cars pulling in and out of the Gold’s Gym parking lot (there have been a couple of close calls). That’s about it – guarded interactions with people who are basically just like me….introverted, focused on completing the task at hand, and, (let’s face it) a tad unfriendly.

Yes, it’s probably a safer run and, yes, I’m still getting the same workout, but I do miss the feeling of taking those first few steps out the door and wondering just what (or who) I was going to run into….just what (or who) was going to force me out of my comfortable me-centered universe…just what (or who) was out there in the “great unknown” of early morning DC.

The “great unknown” of Arlington is pretty much whether or not there will be something new in the window at Ann Taylor Loft. Now, I’m not saying that’s not exciting because it totally is, but the answer to the big question has been the same for the past 3 weeks - an unnaturally thin model wearing skinny jeans (just in case you were curious).
It was that poster which led me, one day last week, to spend the majority of my run thinking about clothes – more specifically about what I was going to wear to work that day.

It went something like this:
The black skirt? – it’s dirty. The other black skirt (with white stripes) – I don’t really like the shirt that goes with it. The black pants? – I think I may wear too much black. You know, black is just easier because you can mix and match but I don’t want people to think I’m depressed because I’m totally not. I do have some brightly colored shirts so it doesn’t seem as blah. How about the green blouse? It’s going to be pretty hot today, so the green blouse may be too warm and sweat marks are gross. It is pretty cool in the office with the a/c so it could work, but what if I have to run an errand or something.
(Are my thoughts boring you? Yeah, they are pretty boring to me too…which is why I miss the DC run.)
The gray skirt? No I already wore that this week – on Monday (duh). The purple skirt is nice but the shoes that go with it are uncomfortable. The gray pants – gray isn’t much better than black (blah).”

“Don’t do it!”

Stunned out of my very important internal dialogue, I came to a halt mid-stride while leaping off of a curb and into the street (which is, as you can imagine, is a little bit awkward…especially for somebody who can fall pretty easily in the best of conditions) and looked up to see a woman staring at me with a stern look on her face. She was much older than me and wore a big yellow hat (a bit of a shock that early in the morning). She was carrying a very full looking purse, which I imagined was full of massive amounts of Kleenex and hand sanitizer.

She was not happy with me.

“I’m sorry…what?”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you – I wouldn’t cross that street when the sign says do not walk.”

She was completely correct…I was at an intersection and was about to cross a street against the light. I was about to do something illegal and I acknowledge that.
The thing is, this particular intersection is a light at the top of a one-way off ramp. Cars come off of a road (a road which can be busy at times, but generally isn’t at 6 am), drive slowly up a long hill and arrive at the intersection. Basically, you can see any cars coming from a good distance away and they are usually coming very slowly because they know there is a light at the top of the hill.

So, yes, crossing against a light is illegal and unsafe, BUT if you’re going to cross against any light in the country, this one isn’t a bad choice.

“Oh, well I didn’t see any cars and….”

“God is watching you. God is always watching.”

Oh boy...here we go.

“He sees everything and He remembers everything. Are you a Christian?”

From the mixing and matching of black pants and green blouses to the existence of God is kind of a big leap at 6 in the morning and I was still trying to recover from the effort it took to not fall flat on my face in the process of stopping the moving object (that had been my body) in mid air.

Now, I am a Christian and I do have things say about my beliefs…and my personal view of God…and even maybe God’s feelings about crosswalks…but, given my confusion and the time of morning, all I could muster up was a half-hearted “…yes ma’am, I am”.

“What kind?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What kind of Christian?”

“Umm…I’m Lutheran.”
The look on her face suggested that this was the wrong answer – or at least an answer of which she did not approve (understandable – this is Virginia, not Minnesota).

“Are you baptized?”

“Yes”

“Do you go to church?”

“Yes”

At this point, another morning runner came running up to the light, glanced over at the woman (who was 100% pre-occupied with me at the moment), listened for a second, and bounded across the street as fast as possible, smiling at me as if to say “better you than me”.

Jerk.

“Do you go to church regularly?”

“Pretty much every Sunday" (completely true, by the way, I was not lying - although, I would have said it even if it weren’t true because this lady was not messing around) "...and my father is actually a pastor so…”

“I hope you are speaking truthfully because God is a just God - He sees and He judges and He knows and…”

I missed a bit of what she was saying at this point. I was trying really hard to remember all of the books of the Bible, all of the commandments, and maybe a Creed or two (I expected a few questions to test my authenticity – we were clearly moving in that direction) when the light turned and the woman in the yellow hat and I crossed the street (legally). She blessed me as I took off for the rest of my run, which was very nice and, apparently, something she felt I was very much in need of (but, who isn’t right?).

It would be kind of cool if I could end this blog with a story about how later in the run, thanks to the words of the woman in the yellow hat, I stopped at an intersection (one that I would normally run through) and a MACK truck came out of nowhere, plowing through exactly where I would have been running had I not met her. That would be an excellent way to tie everything together - with the revelation of a presence (whatever that presence is for you) which is larger than all of us and can be seen at the least likely times and in the least likely places.

The truth is that I ran through the next light, and the next one, and have run through many more since without incident.
Don't count out miracles, though - after all, someone managed to bring a little bit of DC back into my 5:30.

free coffee and cable tv (6/17/09)

2009-06-17T10:04:00.000-07:00

It’s been about 8 months since I made the move from my studio apartment in NW DC to a “roomy” 1075-square foot apartment in Arlington Virginia (which I share with a wonderful boy named Dave and a cute cat named Mo…or maybe it’s a cute boy and a wonderful cat…it works either way). The differences have been notable - here are a few important (albeit slightly superficial) examples:
1) I no longer have to deal with a particular type of insect***
2) The elliptical machines and treadmills in the fitness center have individual televisions (with cable!)
3) There is coffee waiting for me in the lobby every morning as I walk to work (a walk which is, by the way, approximately 2 minutes – including an 8 floor elevator ride and not including a car)
4) I don’t have to pay $2.75 a load to do my laundry.

***someday I will be able to talk in more detail about my year-long battle with this hateful, horrible, un-killable, blood-sucking, sleep-depriving, insanity-causing, horrific, nightmare-causing, did I say un-killable?, devil of an insect ….but I haven’t fully recovered yet from the trauma of the entire experience. When I do eventually recover, I assure you that it will make a very, very, very entertaining blog....or horror movie...one of the two.

I needed and wanted the move and, with everything I loved about DC only a short metro ride away, life on this side of the Potomac really has been the best of both worlds.

Still, every now and again I find my mind wandering back to the 36th block of 16th Street and to the building I used to call home – The Woodner Apartments.

It’s hard to define what it is exactly that I loved so much about the Woodner and my time in apt 643. Roughly 5 seconds on apartmentratings.com will pull up about a gazillion reasons why any normal person wouldn’t want to live there. In fact I have picked a few of the more colorful posts, and I quote:
“The Woodner is THE WORST PLACE a person could ever live!! Unless you are practically homeless don’t move here.”
“Living here has made me absolutely miserable.”
“the halls are basically freakshows”

Hmmmm…not exactly glowing reviews…
Do we have here yet another example of Faith falling prey to sentimental attachments that don’t make sense to anyone else?
Quite possibly, yes, but I maintain that there are things about that crazy building to love, most notably the total randomness of the tenants all living in one big building – from the elderly men and women who probably moved in when the building was still considered high living (a LONG time ago), to the neighbors playing mariachi music late, late, late into the night, to the recent college graduates who just needed an apartment in the District that they could actually afford on a Capitol Hill intern budget…and only found one possibility.
Yes, it’s true, very few things about the Woodner in its present state could be considered easy or nice or even (in some people’s eyes) livable, but everyone claiming a 3636 16th Street address is in it together and, if you watch and listen, there are a lot of stories to tell.

In fact, one of my favorite Woodner stories is a story of persistence.
It’s the story of a woman who taught me the importance of fighting for what you believe in,
the importance of standing your ground,
the importance of defending yourself in the face of a society forever working against you.
Well, ok, maybe it's just a story of persistence.

I’m pretty sure she was a fellow tenant because I only ever saw her in the grocery store, which is located on the first floor of the building and is only really accessible to residents, as the guards at the front door never, ever, ever let anyone through without a keycard (say what you will about pest control and management practices, the place was DEFINITELY secure…think Fort Knox). Every single time I saw her over the course of 2 ½ years, she was attempting to return a pack of cigarettes (a pack that had usually been opened and was generally missing at least one cigarette…but often missing 2 or 3). Standing there with her open pack (and usually buying a 40 ounce or two - you know, while she was at the grocery store) she fought and fought and fought and fought, despite growing lines of people behind her and despite the obvious inconsistencies in her story, to convince whoever was running the register that it was her God-given right to exchange the used pack for a new one. Her most common explanation was that the clerk who was on duty when she bought the cigarettes hadn’t handed her the pack she wanted (she smoked the dark blue pack and they consistently gave her the light blue pack). Since this particular shade-of-blue miscommunication seemed to be a frequent issue, you would think she would pay very close attention to the process at the time she was buying the cigarettes, but strangely she never seemed to realized the mix up until she got up to her apartment...and opened the pack...and smoked anywhere from one to three.

In my 2 1/2 years there, she never convinced a single clerk of anything and never got an exchange or any money back. Most often, she debated until the clerk started ignoring her and rang up the next person in line. She would say a few bad words and leave in a huff, swearing to never again step foot in the store – EVER.

So, as nice as my current building is, and as much as I do love having my very own tv (with cable) when I’m running on the treadmill, there are little things missing.
Maybe it’s the free coffee in the morning or the absence of pest issues – whatever it is, the stories here just aren’t as good.
Maybe everyone here just gets the right colored pack of cigarettes the first time.

SPAM - not the canned meat product (5/26/09)

2009-05-26T09:58:00.000-07:00

I never used to have a spam problem.

I mean, sure, every now and then I would excitedly click to my inbox to see what new and exciting mail was waiting and find instead a notice that I had won the lottery and could claim my money (once a credit card number and ss# were provided, of course), or an offer for a free trip to Hawaii (once a credit card number and ss# were provided, of course), or a personal and confidential email from a prince in Nigeria/an attorney in London (on behalf of his client in Dubaii)/a soldier in Iraq, all with eerily similarly tragic stories and, interestingly, all offering to share a small fortune with me (once a credit card and ss# were provided, of course). The soldier was actually hiding the money under a rock in Baghdad (which is apparently why his message was marked urgent).

Other than these occasional “opportunities”, my inbox was squeaky clean.

I always used to hear people complaining about “that stupid *&*(&%$ spam” and I agreed with them and looked annoyed for the sake of conversation, but I never really actually understood what the big deal was. So you get an occasional piece of junk email? Just hit delete and move on!

Somewhere along the line, though, something went terribly, terribly, horribly wrong (or my email just landed on an unfortunate mailing list) and, in the past few months, my spam problem has becoming bigger than I could have ever, ever, ever, imagined (hundreds of email a week bigger than I could have ever, ever, ever imagined).

Of course, like every responsible email user, I have a spam folder which makes everyday life possible, disguising my little problem quite convincingly. In fact, the casual observer of my inbox probably wouldn’t even notice that I have a spam problem as from simply looking over my email you would really only find correspondence with coworkers, staff memos and instructions from my boss, all neatly arranged and organized.

Yep, on the surface you would never guess that ½ inch down on my outlook main page is another folder, a folder that I don’t like to talk about, a folder full of….SPAM.

It’s to this folder that the vast majority of the junk mail is directly forwarded upon receipt. Once there, it sits in a sort of purgatory before the exciting moment each Friday afternoon when I hit the special button signaling a mass deletion. Up until that particular moment, I avoid this folder as much as possible (you just never know what kind of evil viruses are lurking amongst the hundreds of free offers). But then, last week an important email found its way into the scary part of the inbox (the Anacostia of my email world). The time had come and I was forced to pull up my sleeves, hold on tight to my mouse and, with one click, take a leap of faith into the folder where unwanted bad emails go.

Well, it took about 5 seconds to find the lost email but I wound up spending another 10 minutes in the formerly feared folder.
As it turns out, junk mail subject lines can be extremely entertaining. Don’t worry I didn’t open any (I’m not THAT brave) but I spent a good deal of time reading the subjects and laughing out loud.

I have chosen and categorized a few of my favorite headings for your reading enjoyment.
Please see below:

The “make recipient think the email is actually important so she will open it” subject line:
Confirm your sample.
Mike in trouble!
Our common secret.
Newsletter. Dr's Vankilsdonk.
(Not that I wouldn’t want to help Mike but….oooooh - What could the common secret be?.....Dr. Vankilsdonk? Well, I guess if he’s a doctor he must have something important to say, despite the fact that his last name ends in –donk, which is very very funny.)

The “guilt the recipient into opening the email” subject line:
Answer is needed…
Don’t block me!
I need you to read.
Open mail or get problems.
Reply now, bastard.
(I admit to having felt a little bit guilty up until the last two examples– there’s no need to be rude.)

The “throw in the name of a celebrity or current event and see if the recipient opens it” subject line (this is my favorite category):
America against swine flu!
Jolie caught swine flu.
Obama joked about holocaust.
German tourist threw up in White House.
(Those crazy German tourists.)

The “don’t even do spell check and see if the recipient still opens the email” subject line:
Useful potions, approved pilules
Where did the internet kinky lfie go?
Kissing Mishtakes You Are Making
(What exactly is a “pilule”? - and I’m pretty sure there is plenty of kinkiness left on the internet, regardless of what “lfie” means)

The “no comment…it speaks for itself” subject line:
Your big proud friend in the pants will overshadow the Empire State building
If watering your device doesn’t help it become bigger we know what helps.
We know how to wake your small fellow up.
(No comment…they speak for themselves)

And, finally, an email came today that pretty much sums up the entire junk mail issue. The subject line wasn’t super interesting (I think it was something like “message for you”) but you will never guess who it was from! My old friend – Bull*&$^ Kelliher!

The gu dilemma (4/30/09)

2009-04-30T09:48:00.000-07:00

An abnormal number of my blogs are about running: things that happen while running, people who I meet while running or thoughts that I have while running. (see 10/18/07, 11/9/07 or 1/27/09)

This leads me to believe I’m a rather one-dimensional person who is perhaps a little boring and may need more interests or a new hobby
…but then thinking about my faults stresses me out
…so I go for a run to de-stress
…and something funny happens or I meet a funny person or I have a funny thought
…so I write a blog about it
…Sigh.

(note: this is where you are supposed to say “Faith, don’t say things like that! You are a very interesting person with varied interests and an exciting and dimensional life.”)

Awwww, thanks!

So guess what my blog is about today? Yep, running (so stinking predictable).

Actually, now that I think about it, this isn’t so much of a blog as it is an announcement - a clarification - a public statement of explanation - to all runners or spectators at the 2009 Boston Marathon.

*It is specifically directed to everyone who may have seen me (5’4”ish, purple top, black shorts, goofy-looking crinkled forehead, bib #2853) at any point between mile 8 and mile 26 and particularly from the back.

The announcement/clarification/public statement of explanation:
It was gu – regardless of what it looked like, it was chocolate gu.

A little background information:
The grossness you see over the course of 26.2 miles-
Real marathoners (the really good marathoners - the kind who fly in from other countries because they might actually win the race) can be so dedicated to/focused on winning that things like personal hygiene are, shall we say, secondary. Things that the rest of us may take care of in private (by, perhaps, sacrificing a minute of our final clock time to step into one of the many port-a-johns conveniently located at various points along the course) simply happen right there, right then, mid-stride, while running down the middle of the street. They keep running.

Of course, this is really just heresay, as I’m generally a good distance behind those ridiculously, unbelievably, crazy-fast runners so I’ve never actually seen the nastiness first hand. However, it’s not always the superstar 4 minute mile runners who sacrifice their hygiene to the marathon gods- I once found myself running behind a woman who had unfortunately mis-judged her monthly schedule and was (also unfortunately) wearing white running tights. She kept running. Another time, I came upon a man who had gotten sick while running but didn’t stop along the side of the road to throw up (and the evidence was on his shirt).

The point is, when it comes to marathons it’s not completely out of the question to see things that aren’t pleasant because, no matter how unfortunate the circumstances and regardless of whether you are an elite runner or one of the many of us simply running for our personal best, nobody wants to stop. Once you have crossed that starting line, your only goal is crossing the finish line– that’s the spirit of the marathon.

Gu –
Gu is 100 calories of as much energy as you can possibly squeeze into a tiny 32 oz packet. It’s sort of a mix between icing and pudding and comes in various flavors (with names like Espresso Love and Chocolate Outrage), all attempting to hide the fact that you are eating it ONLY for the sake of keeping your body in motion. The first three marathons I ran were gu-less and I was sick for days afterwards with some sort of nasty mix of dehydration/lack of food thing. Basically, my body was mad at me for putting it through 26.2 miles of ridiculousness and not giving it any fuel along the way…and it’s NEVER good to piss off your body because payback is hell.

In the 7 marathons since, I have learned that 1/4th of a pack of gu at every even mile marker can do amazing things for your race (and can virtually guarantee not spending the following 24 hours with a migraine and your head in a toilet, which is a beautiful thing). The only problem with this wonderful plan is the juggling of gu packets and, in particular, the containment of the remaining gu once a new packet is open.

I’ve tried a few methods -
You can roll the top down and stick it back in your pocket – but it leaks all over your pocket.
You can hold it in your hand, trying to keep it squeezed closed – but it leaks all over your hand.
I thought I had found the perfect solution when I bought a little plastic squeeze container that clipped onto my shorts (holding up to 6 packets of gu!) – the gu made the bottle kind of heavy and, besides slowly pulling my shorts down over the course of the race, the bottle actually fell off a couple of times, skidding across the road.
If you want to see some really angry runners, just throw an object –such as, oh say, a little plastic bottle of gu - in their path while they are running shoulder to shoulder in the early stages of a race.
If you want to see those same runners even angrier, proceed to run after the object – it’s kind of like crossing 5 lanes of traffic on a crowded freeway. There is serious potential for a 10+ runner pile-up. It can get ugly.

So, after every race I make a little promise to myself to find, before the next race, a more efficient way to handle my gu dilemma. Unfortunately, in true Faith fashion, roughly 24 hours before every race I find myself without said “more efficient way to handle the gu dilemma”.

I finished my 3rd (and hardest) Boston last week feeling exhausted, incredibly happy and a little sticky as my hands were uncomfortably gu-covered (yep, I opted for the “hold it in my hand , trying to keep it squeezed closed” method for this race). Crossing the finish line I then proceeded though the sea of “awesome job!”s and “Congratulations!”s (a runner secret: the real reason everyone wants to qualify for that particular race is that the people of Boston make you feel like a freaking rock star every step of the way – but especially at the finish line). I felt really, really good and was maybe a little full of myself…ok, VERY full of myself (you know, the whole rock star thing).

It wasn’t until we got back to the hotel room that Dave saw the back of my leg and said something along the lines of “What the heck is on the back of your leg?”

It was chocolate gu (a lovely brown color) that had apparently dripped down the back of my leg at some point during the race and hardened into a crusty nastiness. It was definitely chocolate gu…but that’s not what it looked like (if you need explanation as to what I mean by “what it looked like” please see the above section entitled: “The grossness you see” and use your imagination).
To make matters worse, only 1 of my 3 gu packets had been chocolate and it was the first one of the day. So however the gu got on the back of my leg (and I’m still not completely sure how it did), it had been there since mile 8 at the very latest but possibly even earlier. That’s at least 18.2 miles of runners coming up behind me and spectators watching from the sidelines, who saw something brown and nasty-looking on the back of my leg…and probably thought the worst.

Back to the announcement:
If you were at the Boston Marathon last week, or if you know anyone who was at the Boston Marathon last week, or if you overhear somebody telling a story about last week when they were running/were watching the Boston Marathon and saw this disgusting runner who…
please, please, please help me set the record straight. IT WAS CHOCOLATE GU!

So much for being a rockstar.

The Naming of Cats (4/8/09)

2009-04-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

“The naming of cats is a difficult matter, It isn't just one of your holiday games”

If you recognize this quote, we may have had similar childhoods – did you spend your pre/early-elementary school afternoons dancing around your living room to the soundtrack (on LP of course) of the musical “Cats” too?

I don’t know if it was because I was so young and impressionable or because I listened to/sang along with that particular record so often (almost as often as “Annie” … poor, poor Mom and Dad were forced to listen to “Tomorrow” and “A Hard Knock Life” more than any adult should ever, ever, ever have to) but that particular gem from musical theater lyrical history stuck in my mind well beyond anything sung by a little curly haired girl in a red dress, a creepy guy wearing a mask and hanging out underneath an opera house, or even, and I know this sounds crazy, but even more than anything from Rent (although I do still have that whole show memorized…I mean, what progressive 90’s high schooler didn’t?).

While Andrew Lloyd Webber (with the lyrical help of TS Elliott) did not successfully convince me that cats can sing and dance, he did teach me to believe with everything in me that they not only know the name you give them but know whether or not it is a cool name. Said name, and it’s coolness factor, then molds the cat’s entire impression of your competence as an owner (an owner, in cat terms, being merely the person who does whatever necessary to make them happy).
In other words, give your cat a dumb name and he/she will hold it against you FOREVER.

Now, many decisions ( ok, MOST decisions) are painfully difficult for me:

-Which combination of bagel/cream cheese this morning? – plain and plain, plain and strawberry, cinnamon raisin with maple walnut (the clear winner…but can lead sweetness overload)
-Whose name should I get on the back of my Caps jersey? – this, by the way, is a question that has been debated over several hockey seasons as my favorite players either get traded or have names like Alexander Semin (yeah, you may have to think like a junior high boy for just a second to understand why I can’t get "Semin" written on the back of a jersey)
-What do I want to do when I grow up (a decision that probably won’t be made until retirement)
…and Dave and I together are even worse:
-What’s for dinner/ Where are we going for dinner? (one of the most important and difficult questions in our relationship)
The naming of our cat (now with us almost two weeks), however, has been an especially difficult decision as it affects not just me and not just Dave but the cat herself, a very unique little individual who, while she cannot say it in words that either of us can understand, clearly has an opinion (based mainly on the tone of her meow, whether her tail is waving or twitching, and the look on her face).

The evolution of our cat’s name started before we even had her, when cat ownership was and “if” and not a “when”:
*Chairman Meow – The name of one of Dave’s friend’s cats (probably one of the best cat names I’ve ever heard) which set the bar high for coming up with something funny/clever/sophisticated.
*Cornbread – Dave’s original pick for our hypothetical cat. It’s a character from a movie (the title for which he couldn't remember) who gets shot and dies. Hmmmm...
*Salmonella – My original pick for our hypothetical cat. It’s the bacteria that causes foodborne illness, I know this, but take away the context of peanut contamination, diarrhea, fever and possible death and the word itself sounds very cool and original…ok, ok, settle down, it was rejected…her name isn’t Salmonella.

Of course, the cat who finally came along, being 6 years old, already had at least one name that we knew of:
*Precious – The name they gave her at the rescue organization (cheesy, cheesy, cheesy…the look in her eyes said it all - “I can deal with being given up….but this name! I’m begging you - give me back my dignity.”).

After just a few days, we started to wonder if we may have adopted a cat who is in training for some sort of top secret government agency – always watching, always following, always sneaking up on people while they are doing yoga:
*Mata Hari – A famous female spy from the early 1900s. She would be Mata for short – not bad, not bad, but not quite right.
*One of the various female characters from the James Bond movies – it could have worked, but their names are all a little too, shall we say, driven by double-entendres (she is, after all, fixed).
*Sydney or Bristow – “Alias” reference…but we didn't have her when Alias was popular (what if she wasn't a fan?)

After the first full week, we knew something else about her:
*Stinky – She has a gas problem…not sure if it’s the change in setting, or the food she was fed in her foster home, or the food we are feeding her now, or (lord help us) a permanent problem, but this name is both accurate and easy to say (just not very nice).
*Chicago, the windy kitty – quite funny but would require a full explanation every time, essentially giving a name that is 4 words long (and, like Stinky, not very nice)

Gender issues:
*Boggle – the only game at which I have a shot at beating Dave. I love it as a cat name but Dave thought it sounded like a boy name…and would remind people of Wade Boggs…therefore leading them to believe we are Red Sox fans…which would apparently be a bad thing.

Friends came up with some fun suggestions:
Ponzi, Fluffy and Sprinkles to name a few, but none of them seemed exactly right.

Another suggestion was to look on different pet-finding websites to get some name ideas (a really good option if you are ever struggling with a pet name…also kind of entertaining – the names people come up with!). Here are some examples:
Frisby*, Sassy, Riley, Tallulah*, Magic, Motley, Georgia, Tangy, Gizmo, Ragu*, Sundrop, Smudge, Flicker, Reese’s, Zoe, Haiku*, Spike, Tillie, Callie, Duchess, Pudge, Ariel, Buttercup, Blossom*, Torpie, Stormie, Codi, Aspen, Harley, Pookie, Lil Bit, Pumpkin, Tortilla*, Annabelle, Cookie, Lola, Tess*, Scooter*, Izzie, Bessie, Gracie, Moonbeam, Chloe*, Chili, Jalepano
(the * signifies my personal favorites)

Still, nothing sounded right.

Then, one evening as I was watching tv with the still un-named and gassy cat, eating the last of the 2009 girl scout cookies and bemoaning the fact that it would be another whole year before the next box of Samoas.....wait!
-Samoas are the best cookies ever and make people very happy.
-She came to live with us during girl scout cookie season.
-Mo is an excellent nickname.
-It's just simply the perfect name for her - it's her name.

So, there you have it "Samoa" has been chosen and approved by Faith, by Dave and by many friends (most of who were just glad we didn’t go with Salmonella).

The cat herself? She acts aloof and doesn’t respond when called which, let’s face it, probably means she likes it.

The Race 3/12/09

2009-03-12T09:33:00.000-07:00

My run this morning was pretty typical - out the door, up the hill, gosh it's chilly today, past the CVS, ouch - wind in the face, hey there's Starbucks..wish I could run and drink coffee at the same time, wave at the night security guard at the Apple Store, turn the corner back to the main road, hello to the random guy running in the opposite direction who I always pass at this exact point in my run, any new cars in the used car dealership?, look behind me to see if anyone is coming, SPLAT...and I'm on the ground.

I barely ever fall when I walk - I can ride a bike without tipping over - I can't remember the last time I tripped on stairs - I convincingly balance my way through 2 or 3 weekly yoga sessions (even when I have to stand next to that guy who makes distracting grunting noises and smells funny) but when I run, any of the following could happen (have happened):

*Falling - I fall mid-run probably once a month on average - no, I don't trip on anything, I just fall. It's a little embarrassing but it doesn't usually hurt.
*Getting hit by random objects - I was once hit by a flying trashcan as the trashcarrier was throwing it back after dumping the contents into the garbage truck. It didn't hurt....much. At least it was empty.
*Getting caught - One time I ran too close to a gate in front of a row house and my sweatshirt sleeve got caught on the gate door. The door swung open and hit me in the face. (I know it doesn't make sense logistically but, to be honest, the whole thing is a blur and this was the only way I could account for finding myself standing in a daze in the middle of the sidewalk with a hole in the sleeve of my sweatshirt and a face full of gate). That did hurt.

It's not a matter of balance or lack of coordination - I fall, get hit by trashcans, get caught on fences, and tend to lack coordination in general when I run merely because I'm constantly looking behind me. That's right, I live in a constant fear of being passed.

How would one develop such a strange and irrational fear? Take a step back with me to the fall/almost winter of 1995.

It's an early Saturday morning in a high school natatorium (aka indoor swimming pool). Can you smell the chlorine in the air? It's the Wabash River Conference (WRC) swimming tournament and the 200 freestyle is about to begin.

Being a swimmer was part of my identity in high school (and we all know how important identity is in high school) but I had a love/hate relationship with the sport.

I loved the practices and the hours spent swimming laps with my teammates - swim swim swim (turn) swim swim swim (turn) swim swim swim (turn). We were a small but dedicated group of girls, most of whom had been swimming together since we were 4 or 5 years old - bonding over pre-meet spaghetti dinners, hours of practice and an overall feeling that swimming was wholly under-appreciated by the school athletic department and by our peers (as was our yearly winning record, thank you very much).

The hate part came on the days of swimming meets....some people get excited by the anticipation of competition but I just remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach when it was time to step up to the block and start a race. I believe it all stemmed back to being 5 years old and getting disqualified at a summer swimming meet because I somehow inexplicably managed to unknowingly swim underneath a lane line and swim 1/2 the race practically on top of the girl in the next lane. I don't think I actually knew what "disqualified" meant at the time, but in my 5 year old mind it was a scary, scary word and it meant that I didn't get a pretty ribbon to put in my scrapbook for completing the race. I cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and swimming meets were never fun again.

Anyway, back to 1995 - it was my junior year and I was favored to win the 200 yard freestyle at the conference tournament. Judging by who was entered in the event and the times everyone they turned in up to that point in the season, the race appeared to be mine. As the buzzer went off and the race began I dove off the block with the pit of my stomach feeling in overdrive. I was in first place and remained in that position through the first lap, the second, the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh...but then came lap 8 (the last lap of the race). At that point the swimmer next to me in lane 4 (whose name I remember but will not reveal...although I do have to share that she was from Seeger High School because that simple fact will add a very real sense of tragedy to the story for anyone from the greater Attica area) suddenly and unexpectedly made her move.

I can still see that last lap in it's entirety - it's just the two of us swimming, everything is in slow motion and I'm pretty sure the music from Rocky is playing in the background (for her, not for me). In my memory it kind of looks like a "Hoosiers" moment, as the underdog comes from behind to defeat the unsuspecting favorite...unless, of course, you are the unsuspecting favorite, in which case it kind of sucked.

She breezed past me effortlessly (well, it looked effortless from my lane) and won the conference title (my title) in the 200 freestyle (my race).
I climbed out of the pool feeling a bit like the 6 year old Faith who didn't get her pretty ribbon.

So, in conclusion (and on the off chance you didn’t completely follow my always logical train of thought):
I fell while running this morning at the corner of Veich and Wilson because I was looking back to see if anyone was running behind me out of an irrational and uncontrollable fear of being passed, a fear stemming from having been passed on the last lap of the 200 yard freestyle (a race I was supposed to win - my race) 14 years ago by a girl from Seeger High School, who shall remain nameless.

It makes sense to me and I believe the swimmer in question owes me an apology for this morning's fall....as she does for all of my running falls... and for the trashcan and gate incidences as well.

The swimming official who made the disqualification call when I was six probably owes me an apology too (once I figure out which of my adult issues stems from that particular incident).

The white cake/white icing incident

2009-02-17T09:41:00.000-08:00

Many of you know how much I like (well, ok, love) white cake with white icing.

It may not be my reason for living (because that would be kind of sad) but one of my primary reasons for going to any sort of celebration (weddings, graduations, anniversaries, bridal showers, house warmings, goodbye parties, baby showers, etc) is the prospect that there may be white cake with white icing and that I might get to eat a piece...or two...or three (any more than three would be bad cake etiquette).

Please note that I did say "one of my primary reasons" (putting a strong emphasis on the word "one"). For any of you now thinking, "Gosh, was cake the only reason Faith came to my wedding?" - no, of course not. I love you all and value any opportunity to share important moments with my friends.
(I just value those moments a bit MORE when white cake with white icing is involved).

Of course, this love for white cake with white icing has led to disappointment from time to time too because, although I can't quite fathom it, some people don't like white cake with white icing or, even worse, prefer any one of the following: chocolate cake with white icing, chocolate cake with chocolate icing, white cake with chocolate icing, marble cake, white cake with white icing and a layer of chocolate or some kind of fruit, cheesecake or even (brace yourself) pie (which, excuse me, is not even in the cake family!). While I don't pretend to understand, I am generally capable of recovering from the initial "No white cake?" shock and enjoying the festivities of the day....and most people probably wouldn't even be able to sense my disappointment (am I a good sport or what?)
Quick note: Cupcakes are acceptible as long as they are made of white cake and have white icing.

Establishing the depth of my love for white cake with white icing is of high importance to the rest of this blog as, only with a clear understanding of that love, can you begin to fathom the horror of the story I am about to tell.

It's not a huge surprise that one of my jobs at work is ordering the cakes for department birthdays and, as you can imagine, it's a job I take extremely seriously. It's become common practice to order the cakes from a local grocery store which just happens to have a huge number of theme cakes to pick from - we have had Hannah Montana cake, golf cake, a Shrek cake, fisherman cake, Elmo cake, the list goes on (but always white cake with white icing).

One coworker recently suggested that we move to ice cream cake. No comment.

Our last department birthday involved a dinosaur cake...which was not at all a reflection on the person turning another year older (a potential interpretation that was lost on me until the cake actually got here - I just thought dinosaurs would make a cool cake). We ate cake, we talked, we ate more cake and we went back to work. Since we are a small department and can only really handle 2/3 of a cake, the rest went downstairs in the refrigerator - a treat for me (I mean, everyone) to look forward to the next day.

Knowing that there will be cake later in the day is amazing motivation for some of us and I was busily excited all day. Around 3 PM (which is appropriate cake timing - 2 hours after lunch, 2 hours before the end of the day and late enough that the sugar rush will hit about the time you're heading home) I went down to the kitchen, brimming with excitement and ready for a plate full of yumminess. Full of anticipation,I eagerly opened the refrigerator to find, sitting precisely where my (I mean the department's) precious cake had been less than 24 hours earlier...

somebody's sandwich, a bottle of Raspberry Vingerette salad dressing, and some moldy bread.

NO! This can't be happening!

As I stood there, holding the refrigerator door, a look of panic/disbelief on my face, I retraced my steps from the day before:

There was definitely cake left yesterday?
Yes, there was definitely cake left (I know because I briefly considered taking it home for myself but then realized that would be rude).

You put it in the refrigerator, right? Absolutely - I would never leave it sitting out because it loses it's freshness.

It was this refrigerator?
This is the only refrigerator.

You didn't put it in the freezer by mistake?
Frozen cake? Um, no.

(I did check the freezer, though, just to be sure - no cake)

Did somebody else in the department already take it upstairs?
It's possible but nobody else gets this excited about cake.

I tried closing the refrigerator door, counting to 10, and then reopening it (just in case) but the sandwich, raspberry dressing and bread were still there and the dinosaur cake was most definitely not.

Dazed and, understandably I would say, very worried I closed the refrigerator door slowly, and turned towards the counter, preparing to inspect the kitchen further, when I saw something that made my stomache (which was growling because it had been anticipating a piece of cake all day long and was very, very hungry) turn. There, in the kitchen trashcan, looking extremely sad, were both the cardboard cake tray and plastic cake cover.

The truth was shockingly clear - my (I mean the department's) cake had been viciously stolen and eaten...completely eaten...it looked like somebody had licked the icing off of the tray.

I could now go into a long and drawn out spiel about how unbelievably rude it is to eat other people's cake. I could share my thoughts on insensitive and greedy people. I could explore office dynamics and what would lead somebody to believe that food in a community refrigerator was public property - even a dinosaur birthday cake with "Happy Birthday to (somebody in a different department's name)" - written on it in brown icing.

I could write a lot...but I'm not going to.

I'll be honest -
Yes, for the rest of that day I did look at all of my coworkers through suspicious eyes.
Yes, for the rest of that day I did pay especially close attention to who might look a little sick, as though they had, oh say...eaten too much cake!
Yes, for the rest of that day I did plot all of the ways I could somehow set up a secret camera in the kitchen and plant "bait cake" to see which coworkers might have cake-stealing tendencies.

Yes, each of these thoughts did indeed cross my mind but, as the day closed, I decided to be a bigger person and move beyond the cake incident.
I acknowledged that maybe I should have put a note on the cake saying it was for me (I mean our department), because it may have been unclear to some people.
I considered my own selfishness - Cake should have probably been offered to the entire office so somebody wouldn't have been driven to stealing.
I realized that there are bigger issues in the world and a piece of cake is not ultimately all that important.

(I also went to the grocery store that night and bought a white cake mix and white icing, which I made and didn't share with anyone.)

...truly a learning experience.

Self diagnosis via google is a dangerous thing

2009-02-06T11:37:00.001-08:00

I am not neurotic. I am also not a hypochondriac.

So why, a person might ask, did I (a non-neurotic non-hypochondriac) spend 3 hours of my Monday evening (and a $100 co-pay) at the Arlington Urgent Care Center on Carlin Springs Road, waiting to speak with a doctor who would take one look at my arm, tell me (very nicely) that hives weren't really an emergency situation and "prescribe" benedryl and cortizone 10 (two over-the-counter medications)? What would lead a perfectly reasonable girl to believe a skin rash was certain death.

That's a very good question and the answer is a simple one - the internet scared the crap out of me.

On Sunday evening my good friend Maria offered to highlight my winter-blah hair and, wanting to look pretty (because I'm a girl and, let's face it, we all want to look pretty), I accepted eagerly. Perhaps it was the overly inflated ego of my new blond streaks or just the fun of hanging out with two great friends, but it wasn't until I was walking back into my apartment 3 hours later, that I noticed how unbelievably itchy my head was.

I woke in the middle of the night to an itchy stomach.
Before my morning run it was my left leg.
Doing my sit-ups I couldn't stop scratching my feet.
By the time I left for work at 8 AM, my hand was the problem.

My body was clearly not happy with me and seemed to be throwing a bit of a tantrum (and the welts were there to prove it). Since it all started with an itchy scalp, it seemed as if the dye activity the night before may be source of the problem. I decided (out of curiosity more than anything else) to do a quick web search when I arrived at my desk.

I could never, in a million years, have imagined the level of paranoia that 3 simple words "hair dye allergy" typed into google could illicite in the mind of this (typically) level-headed girl.

Within seconds, I was reading horrific testimonials of women who survived (yes, survived) allergic reactions to PPD (a common ingredient in hair dye which also just happens to be a common allergin). Some women had scratched their scalps to the point of drawing blood....some spoke of sleepless nights for weeks and weeks.... A few described eyelids swollen to the point of not being able to see. For a few, the chemical caused their faces to swell up like balloons and a couple of women had to go to the emergency room because their throats swelled shut and they couldn't breath. Many of the sites even went the extra mile offering lovely pictures of welts and swollen faces.

Of course, all of the articles and sites I found had disclaimers that the vast majority of cases were not serious and didn't require medical attention...but I had pretty much convinced myself that I was going to die.

As the day went on, the fears grew into internal panic. With Dave working in NY all week, there would be nobody in the apartment that night to hear me wheezing when my throat started to close. When I didn't show up for work on Tuesday morning, my coworkers would probably worry and try calling my cell. After trying to reach me all morning, they would eventually send somebody over to check on me...but by then it would be too late.
So, urgent care was, in my mind, the only real option.

The intake nurse listened to my story...he was sympathetic but didn't seem quite as worried as I thought he should be. "Well, at least your hair looks nice!" he smiled. I wasn't super amused.

As I sat in the waiting room I looked at everyone else waiting before me - none of them looked all that sick...none of them looked like they were going to die! I really thought I should get priority - I was having a very serious allergic reaction.

The doctor, clearly delighted to get an easy case in the middle of flu season, reassured me that, most likely, if my throat was going to swell up it would have done so already...and I would probably have a temperature...and I would be at the ER and not Urgent Care. She did give me a "prescription" for Benedryl (with dosage and timing information). Yep, she actually wrote out a prescription for over the counter medication...I think she was just trying to appease my panic.

So, here I sit, waiting for the itching to stop, enjoying my highlights (safe to say the last highlights I will ever have)and thinking about all of the ways I could have spent the $100 co-pay lost on Monday night to a non-life threatening problem.

You would think I'd have learned from the last time I tried to self diagnose myself using the internet and almost scared myself into going to the ER (trust me, don't ever, ever, ever search for "dull pain; back of head" because that particular symptom can be a sign of a lot of really, really scary things).

Isn't the internet wonderful?

Drinking out of the sink... (1/27/09)

2009-02-01T18:38:00.001-08:00

I'm a little bit worried about a friend of mine.
Well, not so much a friend as an acquaintence.
Well, actually, not even an acquaintence really...just a woman who I've seen every Saturday for the past 2 years at approximately 11:30 AM.

Here's the thing - when it comes to my Saturday morning run I have two
incredibly predictable tendencies:
1) I ALWAYS run the exact same Saturday route (rain or shine) on and
around Arlington Cemetery, Haines Point and the National Mall from
10am-1pm - the route never changes right down to which water fountains I
stop at and where I J-Walk. Those who know me best would probably
lovingly describe this behavior less as a "predictable tendency" and
more as "OCD" but this is my blog so I'm going to describe my behavior
precisely how I want to.

2) I NEVER drink enough water the night before (because, honestly, who
wants to drink water when you can drink diet coke?) and I usually wind
up choking down a large glasses of water approximately 1/2 hour before I
leave for my run in the morning in a pathetic attempt to avoid the
unavoidable dehydration/ dehydration headache that comes from not
drinking the stupid water the night before. The same people who
lovingly described me as "OCD" in predictable tendency #1 would probably
(also lovingly) describe me as slighty dense for apparently not learning
anything from the hundreds of dehydration headaches which have defined
much of my running history.

As a result of running the same route every week and not ever being
properly hydrated, it's pretty much a given that at the same point of
the run every week I get really, really, really thirsty. So it's very
convenient that there, in all it's glory, at mile 10 is my running oasis
(otherwise known as the Haines Point Public Restroom).

For as long as Haines Point has been a part of my Saturday, I have
looked forward to seeing the little round brown and white building on
the north stretch of Potomac Park. After the long trek around the
point, with not a drinking fountain in sight, I am usually parched and
pretty desperate for a break.

There was a brief moment of panic about 3 years ago when I discovered
that the drinking fountain outside the building had stopped working. An
especially hot day, I was desperate for a drink so I went inside, cupped
my hands under one of the sink faucets and kind of slurped up as much as
I could. Now drinking out of the sink of a public restroom is not the
most civilized of moves but let's face it, beggars (or people that don't
prepare sufficiently) can't be choosers. Since fixing that particular
drinking fountain doesn't seem to be a high priority for the park
service, drinking out of the faucet has been the norm for the past few
years.

As not many people go to Haines Point(and even fewer are brave enough to
use the public restrooms there), I'd grown accustomed to not seeing
anyone around which is why one Saturday morning about a year ago I was
startled to find a woman there. Actually, she wasn't just there, she
was THERE - for the most part, she had moved in. Most likely homeless
(the shopping cart, suitcases, and conversation with
nobody-in-particular clued me in on that point), she was busy washing
her hair in one of the sinks and had a couple pairs of socks drying on
the hand dryers.

I don't think she was expecting company because, as I swung open the
door, she jumped a little and immediately walked over and took the socks
off of the hand dryer closest to where I was standing (either she didn't
want to be rude or she was afraid I might try to steal her socks). Once
all of her possessions were secure on her side of the room, she went
back to washing her hair and continued her conversation with the person
who wasn't there (at least not that I could see), completely back to her
little world and ignoring me as much as possible.

I can't say I was thrilled that somebody had discovered my little rest
area but that particular day was really hot so I was just happy to get
out of the glare of the sun for a bit and splash some cold water on my
face. Of course I was thirsty so I started to drink from the faucet,
like normal, when I noticed the woman had stopped talking to whoever she
had been talking to. I looked up to find her staring at me with an odd
look on her face - apparently she found drinking out of the faucet to be
very, very strange behavior.

Done with my break, and honestly a little embarrassed, I ran out the
door.

The woman was there the next Saturday, and the next Saturday, and the
next Saturday, and the next. The funny looks continued for a few weeks
but eventually she seemed to just accept my behavior and learned to
ignore it and focus on her chores. Seeing her there ,washing her hair,
washing her socks, and talking to somebody I couldn't see became a very
predictable pattern - just like everything else about my Saturday run.

One Saturday another woman was there, talking loudly on her cell phone
about slighly inappropriate things. My acquaintence looked up from her
laundry and I looked up from the faucet and we shared a moment of
annoyance - both rolling our eyes as if to say "some people are so
weird!"

She wasn't there last Saturday and, I have to admit, it caught me a
little off guard - Did something happen to her? I know that DC rounded
up a lot of the homeless folks in preparation for the Inauguration so
hopefully she is in some sort of shelter or longterm housing but you
just never know.

Then again, maybe she just found another place to do her laundry
(perhaps where people don't drink out of the sink)?

Goodbye DC (1/6/09)

2009-02-01T18:36:00.000-08:00

Ok, now that it's all out in the open and I have made three official rental payments in Arlington, I need (for the sake of closure) to talk a little bit about my decision to breakup with DC.

Let me take a quick moment to prepare myself...ok, I'm ready.

Breakups are never easy - we all know how painful they can really be (and if you don't know, just nod your head and say "yes Faith, I know exactly what you are talking about - breakups completely suck", because, quite frankly, it's beyond my personal sense of justice that somebody in this world has not experienced being dumped) and my relationship with DC has been longer than any of my other relationships up to this point -with the exception of my 18 year relationship with Attica, Indiana...but I was young then.

Everyone has a special city/town/neighborhood in their past - the place where you started to figure out who you are and where you fit into the whole scheme of things. Billy Joel had NYC, John Mellencamp had small-town Indiana, Bruce Springsteen had the state of New Jersey. It could be your hometown, it could be your college town or it could be the place you moved when you were 23 years old...to live in a group house in a slightly sketchy urban neighborhood...and work at a non-profit...and make no money...and have an adventure. Wherever it is and whatever phase of life you spent there, we all have a place whose streets hold memories that no other place ever could.

DC, you have meant a lot to me.

It's true, you are kind of screwed up. People say it all of the time and while I will always stand my ground and stick up for you, part of me knows it's true. You are the problem child of the east coast - NYC is bigger and more exciting, Boston is smarter and more athletic, Philadelphia is older and has that whole cheese-steak thing, Baltimore is....well, ok, Baltimore is pretty messed up too. You, though, you are the one who breaks everyone's heart because we all know you have huge potential but you just constantly f*& things up (I'm sorry...there's just no other way to say it). People come from all over the world to visit but the National Mall (the big draw) is slowly falling apart and there is constantly nastiness (ex: dead mutant birds and used-looking condoms) floating around in the Tidal Basin, the school system is one of the best funded in the country yet kids make it to high school without being able to read or write, the Nats just got a brand new beautiful stadium and still can't win a game to save their lives and, most importantly, Marion Berry remains in office and keeps getting elected.

I know it's not completely your fault and I understand you have issues - like abandonment. You are a city of transition by nature as administrations come and go every 4 years, college students come and go every school year, and those crazy interns come and go with the seasons. Young, bright-eyed, college graduates with dreams of making it in politics or making a difference in the non-profit sector move into group houses with gusto, use your metro everyday, sit in your coffee shops afternoon after afternoon, loiter in Dupont Circle, get drunk and stagger around Adams Morgan and then, all of a sudden *poof* they're gone. They go back to their "real life" in the midwest and you are left with their forwarding address in Iowa and the the two months left on their Washington Sports Club membership. It's not easy and I understand completely - a few of those people have been my friends and I miss them too.

The truth is, as one of the few who has stuck around, I've put up with a lot over the past 6 years. I've loved my life in the district lines and have looked past a lot of your faults because I really wanted things to work but you have made it really, really hard. I've lost a laptop, a lot of cheap jewelry, random dvds and faith in the system in 2 home invasions and Lumi has lost 2 side view mirrors while just sitting, parked on the side of the road . Constant jury duty (thanks to the small number of eligible jurors in the District) was exciting at first...but got old fast. This could seem like it's coming out of left field, bu I've seen a whole, whole lot (an abnormal amount, actually) of men pleasuring themselves in public. I see it walking past a public park benches on a Sunday afternoons... on the side of the sidewalk during my morning run... walking up the stairwell of my old apartment building (true stories - all of them)...why, DC, why? I've spent HOURS at various offices of the DMV - hours of my life I will never get back. And the traffic! If it's not the ambulances it's the police cars and if it's not the police cars it's the tourists from Idaho (no offense to Idaho-ans, I just picked a state) who don't know which quadrant they are supposed to be in (is there a difference between U Street NW and U Street SE?...ummmm yes, yes there really, really is) and if it's not the tourists it's the damn motorcades - I don't know how any of us get anywhere.

So, why did I stay so long? because, DC, you have personality. I love your quirks and your weirdness and the fact that bizarre things happen every day. I love the metro and that I can jaunt all over the city and outlying areas without a car. I love that all of the streets are walkable and bikable. I love that there is a huge park running through the city (ok, yes, the occasional body is found there but it's usually safe). I love that I can just as easily run into a member of Congress on Capitol Hill as an old friend on the Mall, and that I'm almost 100% guaranteed to see Matthew Lesko(the question mark guy from the "I can teach you how to apply for government money" infomercials)anywhere and any time in Adams Morgan. I love Caps games (especially now that they win a lot) and the Nats games (even though they never, ever, ever win). I love the cherry blossoms in the spring. I love that on any given summer afternoon you will find gazillions (yes, gazillions) of games of kickball and softball being played all over the Mall. I love that you can hear 5-10 different languages walking down the street of pretty much any neigborhood in the city. I love that everything is a political statement - even the license plates. Strangely, I actually love that everything is about 20 times more difficult than it really needs to be and that nobody goes out of their way to make it any easier because, as a result, when you get something done in DC it's because you worked hard for it and you can be truly proud. I still remember crying (actually crying) tears of joy when after weeks and weeks of trying I successfully registered my car for the first time. I love sitting in the solidude of Haines Point and watching planes take off from Reagan National. I love the sunshine salad at Laurial Plaza. I love hearing the drum circle as I walk past Meridian Park on summer Sunday afternoons. I love that random helicopters fly over constantly (sometimes DC helicopters with search lights and sometimes military-ish looking helicopters with no apparent purpose). Most importantly, I love all of the memories.

DC, you will always have a special place in my heart and while I know that moving to Arlington was sort of selling out, life here is a lot easier. I'm 30 now (ancient, really) and it was time for a change - work is here, Dave is here, my grocery store is here, taxes are cheaper here, I feel a little bit safer here, and Lumi is closer to his mechanic here.

It's not you, it's me...I'm tired of working so hard.

...and this is the tough part - since I'm approximately 2 minutes away by car and 5 minutes by metro, it's really important to maintain a strong working relationship. I still have a lot of obligations within the district lines so it would be best if we got along - no hard feelings?

I'm glad we've had this talk and I'm going to go ahead and change my profile city on my myspace and facebook pages (making it official)...it's going to hurt but I can't keep living a lie.

God speed DC...and God Bless.

Election confession (10/19/08)

2009-02-01T18:35:00.000-08:00

I'm still excited and energized by the results of the presidential election. Along with the rest of the country, I spent the 4th glued to the news reports, watching the state results come in (pleasantly surprised by my home state - yay hoosiers!), confused (as always) by the popular vote versus the electoral vote, and moved by both the concession and acceptance speeches. It was a fantastic night and proved, unlike other recent elections, that sometimes the system works.

After that politically correct (and accurate, I might add) spiel I now have to make a confession - a confession that is going to make me sound extremely hypocritical and could shock some of you, as I know you are all responsible citizens who care deeply about the fate of the country and, many of whom, work for DC non-profits and organizations that firmly believe in social justice and change.

OK, here it goes...

Ready? I'm gonna say it....

I almost didn't vote.

(please forgive any mis-spellings throughout the rest of this blog as I'm now hiding under my desk in anticipation of dirty looks and small, blunt objects being thrown in my general direction).

Ok. So this is the part where I go down a list of points, attempting to justify the irresponsible choice that I ALMOST (note the almost) made.
Just a quick warning - all of these are excuses, most are a stretch and many sound a whole lot like whining.

-Up until 3 days before the election, I was a DC resident who was registered to vote in the District. On the weekend of the 31st, however, I moved to Arlington, Virginia. This led me to question whether I was legally allowed to vote anywhere but I couldn't find anything on any of the "how to vote" websites explaining what to do if you are "between polling places" (that sounds kind of like an answer you would give on a blind date) and also weren't organized enough to vote absentee.
-Every article I read and every report I heard throughout the day focused on the lines. It seems that everyon who went to vote had to wait in long, long, long lines...historically long lines....excruciatingly painful long lines....for hours and hours and hours...in the rain. I know the goal of the local media wasn't to convince Faith Korbel not to vote, but they sure weren't pushing me to make an effort.
-Tuesday is my yoga night. I always go to yoga on Tuesday night and I'm a creature of habit. Honestly, it would have been nice if the government had consulted me when deciding that elections would be on Tuesdays.
-Obama had DC locked up (it's a fact - he won 93% of the DC vote). I know, I know, if all of his supporters used that excuse not to vote, there would be a huge upset and we would all be really sorry. I know this, I just felt confident that he was ok without me. Had I been registered in the battleground state of Virginia (where I technically live) I wouldn't have considered skipping out for a second, but DC seemed safe.
-One of my coworkers was going to vote a straight republican ticket and I was going to go completely democrat - we were both feeling lazy and figured our votes would only cancel each other out so if neither of us went it would basically be the same as if both of us did (it seemed like a reasonable theory at the time...until he voted over lunch).
-I hadn't done my research. Of course I knew about the presidential candidates (I have, after all, been alive for the past 2 years) but as far as the local stuff - I knew nothing. Other than who had neat signs (Dotti Love Wade had apples on her signs...but I'm not even sure what she was running for) and whose names sounded cool (somebody named Kwame Brown must be cool), I was at a loss.

Finally, the excuse that is probably both the most accurate and the least forgivable:
-It was kind of a rainy gross day and I couldn't leave work to vote over lunch so by the time 5:30 rolled around and I was walking out of the office, I didn't feel like getting my butt back into DC to my registered polling place.

So before the judgement really begins, let me assure you - I did it...I voted.
(can I come out from under my desk now?)

I debated (both internally and with anyone who would listen) most of the day and concluded that, in the end, I would be really upset with myself if I didn't take part in such an historic election. I also realized I could make it into an evening run (making up for missing yoga).

The run from Arlington to DC is scenic and appropriately political. Starting at the Iwo Jima Memorial, you pass Arlington Cemetery, cross the Memorial Bridge and continue past the Lincoln Memorial, the Vietnam Memorial, the Washington Memorial and the White House. With the combination of exercise and inspiration, the dread began to lift. The city streets were full of people leaving the office for the day and on their way to various bars and homes for election-watching parties and rallies. People were excited and hopeful and there was an energy in the air that you experience in DC every 4 years...and, yes, missing it would have been a bummer.

By the time I arrived at Bancroft School in Mount Pleasant I was downright excited to be voting, excitement that grew when I saw the line of approximately 1 person (so much for the news reports - early voters are suckers :)). I picked up my ballot and pencil, connected all of the arrows, marched up to the nice woman at the ballot machine table and smiled as she repeated the line of the day "Thank you for taking part in history" and handed me my sticker.

When I got home I turned on the television and settled in for a night of election coverage. The results came pouring in and we all know how it all ended.

Could Obama have won without my vote? Heck yeah he could have (just like Kerry lost with my vote four years ago). The important thing is that when the election of 2008 actually is history and Obama is known as one of the greats, I can be smug about it - after all, I voted for him. :)

Dogs (10/24/08)

2009-02-01T18:33:00.000-08:00

I like dogs - I honestly do. Actually, I'll even say I love dogs. Someday (when I'm responsible, live in a place with more than 1 room, and don't travel...ever) I even hope to have a dog of my very own to play with and walk with and take care of.

In fact, I trained a dog once - Bristles was his name and he was the Grand Champion of the 1991 (or thereabouts) Fountain County 4-H Fair Dog Obediance Competition. Out of all of dogs there (trained by fellow dedicated 4-Hers) my dog sat and stayed better than any of them. Actually, I should stop for a minute and say a little something about Bristles. Bristles was, quite simply, a wonderful dog who never got quite as much credit as he deserved (I think, maybe because he was kind of funny looking). Before I do that, though, I need to talk about a beagle named Phred....and actually, even before that I should tell you about Trig the Norwegian Elkhound....

Faith's History with Dogs:
Trig: Trig was the first dog I ever knew. He lost a leg long before I was born, the result of getting caught in a barbed wire fence when he was still a puppy (he was trying to jump over it and got all twisted up - by the time anybody found him, it was so badly mangled that they had to amputate) so his name fit him really well. One of my very first memories is sitting on a sled while Trig pulled me through the snow (our neighbor, Mr. Wilson, made a dog harness and Trig pulled me - I've seen pictures and it looks like I'm training for the Iditarod at a little over 2 years old). As I grew older, Trig grew grumpier and grumpier, and grumpier (maybe it was the fact that he was forced to pull a 2 year old around in the snow) until old age got the better of him.

Phred (yes, with a PH not an F): Phred wandered up to our house one afternoon and never left. We lived on the outskirts of town which, in a town with a population of 2,500 means we that we didn't have neighbors on all four sides or a sidewalk in front of the house, but that we also didn't live in a cornfield. It was, basically, about the distance town folk were willing to drive to drop off the pets they no longer wanted - close enough that there was still hope the animal could find a nice family and far enough that the animal wouldn't find it's way back to their house. It happened so often that we never went more than a month without a dog or cat because, inevitably, one would show up and move in. Phred was ADORABLE. All beagles are cute but this beagle was incredibly, exceptionally, disgustingly cute. That said, much in the same way the cheerleader in a teen movie is always ditzy, and the nerdy girls always eventually get a makeover, date the football player, and become the prom queen ,cute dogs are often not incredibly bright. Approximately 2 classes into the 4-H dog obediance program it became clear that he simply wasn't an apt pupil. It was totally ok because he could have easily gotten through his dog life (and lived a very happy dog life) strictly on the grounds of being so stinking cute but, unfortunately, his happy-go-lucky/not too bright outlook on life translated directly into an early death on the road in front of our house. :(

...which brings us to Bristles...besides being incredibly sad, Phred's death was inconvenient from a 4-H point of view. I was halfway into the dog training process that summer and not competing at the Fountain County fair in July would set me up with a big fat INCOMPLETE in my 4-H record (and you thought incompletes in college were bad). Still mourning the death of the cutest beagle in the entire world and a little surprised that another stray hadn't shown up, my parents and I made the trek to the humane society to find an obediant-looking dog who might fit into our household after the fair was over.

Bristles: There were tons of great dogs that day but as we walked up and down the aisle looking, my dad kept coming back to one cage. As I walked up to see what had drawn his interest I saw, sitting there, an extremely strange looking dog. The only way to describe the stocky little guy was the loving term "mutt" - the head and paws of a St. Bernard with the height and figure of a bassett hound, things just didn't add up. He was a light tan color and his hair was thick and wirey - not very pett-able. He had puffs of white hair around his ears and mouth which made him look 100 years old even though the sign said he was only 2. We decided on a cute, white fluffy dog in a nearby cage but went home to think it over. When we returned a few days later, the cute dog had been adopted (well, duh, people like cute dogs) but the strange looking dog was still there...deadlines are deadlines and I had dog obedience class the next night so the strangel looking dog is was!
It's hardly difficult to see the moral of this story....the second choice dog (second based solely on appearance) went on to make obediance history and win grand champion at the fair. (Incidentally, this success was a one-year occurance as the next year involved fetching things which Bristles apparently felt was below him).

So, now that you know my entire history with dogs, I feel somehow justified to complain a little bit....here it goes....are you ready....? :)

I like dogs very much....dog owners, however, are a different story.

Now, keep in mind I'm writing this as an early morning city runner who is used to not having to go around things (or people) on the sidewalk. I admit that I'm spoiled because city sidewalks that are fairly crowded at 5:30 PM are very nearly completely empty at 5:30 AM. Sure I occasionally freak out a poor soul who is walking to their office at that crazy hour but even that's rare. (I have yet to figure out a better way of letting somebody know I'm coming...there must be one, though, as running up behind people and slipping past them on the side of the sidewalk seems to be scary for them and a little dangerous for me - one girl almost knocked me out when her self-defense class skills kicked in.)

Probably the people whom I see most often at that early-hour (my main competitors for sidewalk space) are the dog owners.

Not all are bad, many scootch over, courteously stand between other sidewalk dwellers and the dog, and maybe even hold the leash a little tighter - all of which let me know the dog is not going to jump over and bite off a person's leg or arm. I am not, however, going to talk about those dog owners...instead, I would like to talk about the dog owners who, with their dog, take up the ENTIRE sidewalk and won't consider budging a bit for other people on the sidewalk, letting their dog run free and within pouncing distance of anyone in a 6 foot radius.

More upsetting than having to run in the street in order to keep safe distance between myself and a dog is the looks and explanations that owner give me, many times defensively, "he's a very nice dog - he doesn't bite" or "oh, you silly runner, she would never hurt you".

Ok, here's the thing, your dog is an animal. I realize that it's an animal that you love very very much but it's still an animal....and animals can turn. Sure, on the outside, little Fluffy looks all sweet and innocent but inside there is a mean streak just waiting to take a hunk out of a runner at, oh let's say, 5:45 am on a Thursday morning. You don't actually know. The fact that Fido hasn't ever bitten anyone before doesn't mean he won't see something in me that he simply doesn't like.

So, in conclusion, I like dogs (as I believe my history shows) so clearly this has nothing to do with them - I have no deep resentment or fear from being growled at when I was 5 years old or anything like that. I simply want to say to some (not all) dog owners:

1) You don't actually know your dog because your dog is an animal and not a person so please pull the leash closer.
2) The fact that your dog has never bitten anyone does not mean that he/she will not bite me so please pull the leash closer.
3) If 1 and 2 do not apply to you because you are, in actuality, in tune with your dogs thoughts and emotions and you truly believe that your dog will absolutely, without question, not bite me, please pull the leash closer. Even going through the motions would mean the world to the random person who may, perhaps, have deep resentment or fear from being growled at when they were 5 years old.

Thanks! I'll see you and Peaches tomorrow morning at 5:45 am.

I will be nice if it kills me (10/3/08)

2009-02-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

Recently I had to ask myself an important question - "Faith, are you a nice person?" For the most part, I try really, really hard to be a nice person (caring, polite, giving) and I think I carry it off...most of the time...some of the time....usually. The truth is, I'm kind of selfish, a little bit greedy and tend on the grouchy side, all of which get in the way of being nice.

Just a few examples:
*I cut people off...I admit it. I cut people off in traffic and slow them down only because I want to get where I'm going faster. Does this stop me from being annoyed with/ giving dirty looks to people who cut me off in similar situations? Heck no...it's a rude thing to do!
*I hate holding doors for people. Sure, I do it when required but I'm not happy about it and it takes a lot to smile when the other person says "thank you". In my own defense, I don't expect other people to hold doors for me and if you are ever in a position to hold the door for me and you don't I will completely understand...in fact, if you just let it close on me I will probably respect you more.
*I will take the last cookie or piece of candy when nobody is looking. Somebody has to eat it and it might as well be me but I don't do it when people can see me because that would be rude.
*I don't like talking to people in elevators. My office is in a building with a parking garage and it's not uncommon to meet people you know in the elevator in the morning. I take the stairs primarily in order to avoid morning conversation...in the past I've even hidden behind cars until people I know clear the area.
*Tipping is painful. It's not that I don't tip - in fact I tip pretty well - I just resent the fact that I have to do it. I completely understand that servers generally get paid really badly and that tipping is primarily how they make their money. I get it, but when I get my debit card receipt and see that tip line I get really greedy really fast and parting with that extra $1 or $2 is painful and, in my mind, completely unfair.

There are other examples but it's probably not in my best interest to continue listing my negative traits and attitudes for people who read my blog, most of whom are likely friends.

So, why have been thinking about being nice? Well, recently I did something and the guilt is still hovering, circling like the DCPD helicopter on a crime-ridden Friday night.

My friend Anna (her name has been changed to protect her identity) and I decided to meet up for a movie on a very rainy and unpleasant Saturday evening. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was a rainy and unpleasant Saturday evening (popular movie weather)and that we were going to a theater with very small seating areas, we proceeded to buy tickets for a movie starting in only 15 minutes and THEN decided to walk to the nearest CVS for soda and snacks to sneak in (oh come on...like you've never snuck in peanut M&Ms and a diet coke! :)). Needless to say, by the time we got back to the movie place and got to our movie, the only seats left in the tiny theater were in the front two rows. Annoyed, we parked ourselves in the 2nd row and sat there for a second. I'm not sure what Anna was thinking, but I was thoughtfully considering how unfair life was and how I didn't deserve such treatment.

Then - a thought! Our second choice movie was in a bigger theater, right next door, and didn't start for another 20 minutes! A recog mission verified that the other theater was still very open with lots of room for 2 interlopers who didn't want to sit too close to the screen for the movie they actually paid for. So, narrowly missing 2 theater workers (Phew!) we darted into the theater and attempted to hide our self satisfaction as we (quite naturally and unassumingly) walked up the stadium seating stairs to the perfect movie seats. Waiting an extra 20 minutes for the "2nd choice movie" to start was a minor price to pay for looking forward at the screen instead of straight up.

Everything was great until the theater noticeably starting growing more and more crowded. As yet another large group of people of walked through the doors with a whole 10 minutes left before showtime, Anna and I started to slump in our seats. We attempted to talk about other things but we were both visibly distracted by the fact that we seemed to have crashed a sold out show. What would happen when the final 2 people walked in and all of the seats were gone? Would there be an investigation? Would they bump up the lights and demand ticket stubs for examination? Would we be publicly called out in front of the whole theater for illegal theater jumping? I could already see the looks of disgust on the faces of my fellow moviegoers as we were ushered out of the theater. We even quietly discussed possible stories - "Gosh, movie usher, this is the movie we came to see - we must have accidentally gotten the wrong tickets." or maybe "We seem to have walked into the wrong theater by mistake - so sorry!"

Nothing seemed like a logical explanation - if it came down to only our excuses, we would be busted.

And that's just the fear of being found out, which is nothing compared to the guilt of knowing what we had done. I guiltily and deliberately dodged the eager glances of fellow movie-goers looking for seats "Excuse me, is that seat taken?", "I'm sorry to bother you, would you mind scooting over one so I can sit with, oh, it's taken, ok, never mind, thank you.", attempting, as best I could, to appear as though I was supposed to be there.

(On a side note, is it just me or is it kind of strange that people walk into a crowded theater, see people sitting in the floor rows and still walk up the stairs looking for empty seats?...I have never met a person who actually chooses to sit in the 4 front rows so I'm pretty sure if there are people sitting there, they've already explored all other options.)

Anyway, the guilt hit it's peak when an older couple came in and actually sat on the stairs, THE STAIRS, to avoid sitting in the front few rows. I should have offered my seat...did I? No, I did not.

As the lights dimmed, I knew Anna and I were in the clear - there would be no investigation and we would not get kicked out. I was actually drawn into the movie pretty quickly and forgot the whole issue (ah, the power of a good story). In the end, though, the lights came back up and the couple was still sitting there, on the stairs. As the man stood up and stretched his back, I silently asked his forgiveness for taking his seat.

There will be other rainy Saturday nights and other movies to see but I will never, never, never jump theaters again...I'm way to nice a person for that. :)

Lumi's midlife crisis (9/17/08)

2009-02-01T18:30:00.000-08:00

I have an interesting relationship with my 1995 Chevy Lumina (Lumi)as he has been one of my trustiest companion over the past 4 years (and trusty companions are hard to find in a city where friends come and go on a regular basis). Lumi has seen me through heavy rain, slippery snow, icy conditions and many a hot, hot summer (not 1 a/c problem). He stuck with me through some, I admit it, user error (bad driving) and numerous scrapes and dents (some thanks to DC wear and tear but most due to the big yellow posts in my office parking garage). There have been 2 minor accidents and a couple of close calls and Lumi always rebounds - unlike my insurance premium.

I was really surprised when several Thursdays ago my loyal Lumina left me in a bit of a tight spot...more specifically, on a tight spot on the side of a busy road during rush hour. I was making my way to Bethesda on Canal Road in DC in the middle of the evening rush. Traffic was backed up and moving slowly when all of a sudden Lumi's voltage light came on and his steering wheel locked up. My heart stopped and my knuckles turned white as I looked both directions and saw only a wall on one side and a ledge on the other and I realized that, if I didn't find a place to pull over fast, my car very well might just stop in the middle of the 2-lane road. Please, Lumi, please, not right now...keep going. He did keep going long enough to reach a little area of gravel on the side of the road. I pulled off and surveyed the damage. Everything looked just great, except of course for the smoke wafting out from underneath the hood and the not so faint smell of burning anti-freeze. Mmmmm...anti-freeze.

These are the moments that make the value of Triple A entirely clear - the times when a clueless girl (and I hate to promote stereotypes but, dammit, I am what I am) is stuck on the side of the road with a car who is throwing a temper tantrum. Yes, I have visions of being one of those cool women who takes off her suit jacket, pulls back her hair, and starts fixing her own car...but I'm just not. Experience from past breakdowns has taught me to, instead, pull out my handy Triple A card, take a seat, and wait for the tow truck.

It was a lonely hour and a half as I waited with Lumi along Canal Road. I thought about the dinner I was missing with my friends, about the impact this fun little experience was going to have on my bank account (which was just starting to look healthy), about how early I would have to get up the next morning to get to work on time via public transportation (the answer to that question, by the way, is 5 AM). More than anything, I thought about how Lumi had betrayed me and how angry I was that my little car couldn't just get me to Bethesda like I asked. It was a good time to reflect on my history with Lumi:

I once left Lumi parked for 5 hours in a not so great area of town with the keys dangling from the drivers side door. Yes, that's right, the keys (door key, ignition key, my house key) dangling on the OUTSIDE of the car. "Hello potential car thieves, please take my car. Look, you don't even have to break in!" I suppose the fact that nobody took him (despite the availability of the keys) also says something about Lumi...he's a bit unfortunate-looking (but in a lovable way).

I have lost both of Lumi's side view mirrors at different times (the passenger side more than once). I don't really use side view mirrors when driving (hmmm...maybe I should) and DC law only requires 2 of your 3 rear-view mirrors be in working condition (yes, I've asked) so losing one isn't all that big a deal. The main problem is that a broken side view mirror makes Lumi look, well, kind of stupid. When the side view mirrors break on some cars they just fall off completely but Lumi has a strong, black, tubey-thing (I believe that's the technical term) which connects his mirrors to the car so when a mirror falls off, it just dangles there, helplessly. I have to say, it's pretty sad to see and it looks even worse when the car is moving over 40 mph. I can't tell you the number of times I've passed cars on a highway and looked up to see people pointing and laughing at one of Lumi's mirrors blowing around in the wind. Not that it matters to him...he's not really worried about that kind of thing...but I feel bad.

Lumi does not have a single cupholder(apparently in the mid-90s people didn't need cupholders). As a result, many a beverage has been spilled on Lumi's floor and upholstry (a nice light brown color that shows every single dribble and spill). You can clearly see all of the places in the car where I've tried to create a cupholder because those are the places with the most spills - wedged between the door and seat, leaning up against the arm rest,propped up in the passenger side seat.

I guess that in some ways the car has every right to be frustrated with me, every right to be angry with its neglectful owner, every right to start showing some attitude. It would be hard not to be at least a little bit grumpy as a virtual senior citizen in the car world - all of the cute little cars from the '00s driving around with their flashy satellite radio and onstar and cupholders and windows that roll down (Lumi's passenger side window is out of commission)...and then you have the snotty little hybrids (not only are they cuter than Lumi but they've got the whole "reducing the carbon footprint"/ holier-than-thou thing going on).

As I sat there thinking about my adventures with Lumi, the tow truck arrived and I realized within about a second that the driver was an old friend of Lumi and me. This was the very truck driver who towed Lumi the last time he didn't start. That night had involved a significant level of fear on my part as the driver (let's call him Bob) drove the tow truck, with my poor car helplessly dangling in the back, faster than I would have formerly though possible and knowingly executed multiple illegal and terrifying turns and maneuvers through heavy DC traffic, arguing with his girlfriend on the phone the entire time. In the end, that night turned out ok because I was able to give Bob some girl advice and he got Lumi to the garage in one piece, making it a fair exchange.

Bob didn't seem to remember me as clearly as I remembered him and I was ok with that.

This trip to the garage turned out to be almost as memorable as the first one as Bob managed to block traffic in both directions for what felt like 15 minutes (probably closer to 2...but still!)in order to get my car on the truck, made 2 wrong turns (followed by 2 incredibly illegal U turns to correct the mistakes) at high speeds, and had a few yelling matches with various drivers who disapproved of his towing methods and his driving in general. There weren't any arguments with his girlfriend this time but I definitely got an earful about his boss. Eventually he got me to the garage safely and without incident. He's a nice guy and a great tow truck driver but I hope I don't see Bob again any time soon.

When our favorite mechanic Walter called the next day, the news wasn't great (or cheap) but Lumi was all better and things were back to normal (or so I thought).

3 days later I had to call Triple A again because Lumi's battery died.

1 day after that I had to call Triple A again because I locked my keys in the car while I was buying groceries. Luckily nothing was frozen or melt-able but it was a long 2 hour wait in the Giant parking lot and let me tell you, it's hard not to look kind of shady sitting on the hood of your car eating crackers in a grocery store parking lot.

That same day I bumped up my Triple A membership.

3 days later I noticed that Lumi's steering wheel started shaking when I drove over 55mph and he had to go back to see Walter (no Triple A was involved this time). The tires needed to be moved around (on a scale of 1-10 of Lumi problems, about a 3).

Needless to say, I was beyond frustrated with my car and his issues. Then, a few days after his last visit to Walter everything became clear. I looked down at the display area by the steering wheel (an area I try to avoid looking at out of the very real fear that one of the scary lights will be on - "check engine" or "voltage" or "car just doesn't feel like it") and noticed that somewhere in the midst of all of the recent Triple A/repair shop activity Lumi had passed the 100,000 mile mark - he is officially an "old car".

I forgave my car then and there for his recent behavior...everyone is allowed a little midlife crisis.

Fortunately, there have been no temper tantrums since that week and we are aiming for 150,000.

Grown up things (5/13/08)

2009-02-01T18:29:00.000-08:00

In the relatively short time (10 years) I've been an actual, responsible grown-up who has to do (mostly unpleasant) actual grown-up things such as buy my own groceries, do my own taxes and pay for my own Triple A Membership, I have learned to appreciate the sense of accomplishment that comes with completing the annoying little tasks that simply have to be done in order to make life work. In some ways they are small victories - paid a parking ticket (check), set up some investments (check), signed a lease (check), found a mechanic who I trust (check) - and once conquered, I feel a sense of accomplishment in knowing that I may actually one day be a full-fledged adult (it's kind of a long-range goal).

In all of these little victories, however, there is exactly one "grown up experience" that has been particularly unpleasant and in which I can find little to no sense of satisfaction, even after it's been accomplished. Rather predictably, it involves the Department of Motor Vehicles and is therefore required by DC law. The one thing that brings only the truest form of dread and the purest sense of horror into what tends to be a relatively optimistic (no, not sunny, I would never claim sunny...but definitely optimistic) view of life is....drumroll please...taking my car in for it's inspection.

Let me lay the foundation for my case:
1) I grew up in Attica, Indiana where (at least when I was growing up) car inspections are not required. You just register your car - that's it. It's really a lovely system.
2) I work in Virginia where you can have your car inspected at practically any gas station. If your car doesn't pass the inspection, you simply pay the mechanic who did the inspection more money and he or she fixes the problem then and there...again, a lovely system.
3) I live in the District of Columbia which has exactly 1 inspection station. That's right, you heard me correctly, every single car, truck, cab and motorcycle owner in DC has to take their vehicle to the same physical location to be inspected. This inspection station is open from 8 to 2 on Saturday and 8 to 5 every other day of the week. Since the Monday through Friday times are pretty much impossible for anybody who has a job, it's not uncommon to arrive at 6 AM on a Saturday morning and find the line of cars wrapped around a few blocks.
4) The first time I took my current car (a Chevrolet named Lumi) through the inspection process he failed 3 times. 3 times I went to the inpection station and waited in line for 2 1/2 hours, 3 times they told me that he failed the emissions test, 3 times they gave me a little handout with a bar graph comparing where certain emmissions were supposed to be and where Lumi's were and 3 times I followe up by taking the car to a mechanic who told me that the bar graph told him absolutely nothing and that all he could do (for a minimum fee of $50) is tweak a few things and hope for the best. While tweaking eventually solved whatever seemed to be the problem, it was a long, painful, expensive process and just thinking about it makes me want to cry.

A few weeks ago I arrived at work, sat at my desk and looked over at my weekly calendar to see what was ahead for the week. My stomach began to sink as I slowly realized May was here. Yes, May means Mother's Day and Spring and Memorial Day, which are all great, but in my mind May really only means one thing...car inspection. Sadly (pitifully, actually, and feeling extremely sorry for myself) I started looking over my Saturdays to decide which ones were to be sacrificed to the DC DMV. I decided to set several Saturdays aside and to go into the process expecting to fail at least twice - so as not to put too much stress on Lumi (he's sensitive). For the next week or so I walked around with a thundercloud over my head - a sense of dread that I could not shake. The time, the money, the frustration...it was just too much.

As I was walking to the car one night after work last week, it occurred to me that it had been a while since I cleaned out the little area below the windshield where all of the flyers for new clubs and concerts get stuck when they blow out from under the windshield wipers. My eyes were inexplicably drawn to the little green inspections sticker where I saw the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life - a 9!!! That's right, instead of 5/24/08, the expiration date on my inspections sticker read 5/24/09.

I cannot begin to explain the joy I felt at that moment. I'm sure that childbirth is amazing but I really don't see how seeing your newborn baby for the first time can possibly compare to realizing that you don't have to go back to the DC inspection station for a whole year. Winning an Olympic gold medal? - Not really that big a deal. Winning the lottery? - Please! Simple pleasures.

Further online research confirmed that inspections are required not every year but every other year, which I probably knew at one point but filed away in the "I don't want to think about it" section of my mind with all of the other pieces of information relating to the DMV.

So for another year life is good but you may want to keep your distance come May 2009 - it could get ugly!

Normal (3/6/08)

2009-02-01T18:28:00.000-08:00

I'm in a wonderful, fabulous, completely fantastic mood today. I'm excited to be alive and when I look at the amazing world around me I'm overcome with joy at being a part of it. Every experience is a new opportunity and everyone I see is somebody I want to talk to. The future is fully of hope and possibility and I'm excited to step out and make things better.

Gosh Faith, why the positiv-ity? Not that it's out of character for your typically cynical and sarcastic self but, well, ok yeah it's a little bit out of character for your typically cynical and sarcastic self.

Well, I'll tell you why. After 3 days of feeling awful...of having an achy throat, of having a stuffy and sore nose, of feeling like my head was going to explode, of not being able to do anything but lay in my bed motionless, of not wanting to do anything but lay in my bed motionless, of being home from work and not even wanting to watch Oprah, of not eating anything because the sheer dread of standing up and finding something edible outweighed the minor discomfort of an empty stomache, of not having the energy to pick up my phone when my parents call (well, ok, that's pretty typical), of being absolutely, positively, want-to-die miserable, I FEEL NORMAL AGAIN!

There's just something so special about that first day of normalcy after a bout with gross-ness, isn't there? All of a sudden things like walking to the copy machine and making a copy is a truly moving experience and a cup of coffee is a little taste of heaven. Talking to people again is fun and I genuinely want to know how they are and how they feel about things like life... and the election... and the weather!

Life is beautiful!
------------------

Update: I actually wrote this last Thursday (which was my first day back from the ickies). It's now Thursday of following week and while I am still happy to be feeling good, the magic is gone and feeling normal is back to being an expectation rather than a miracle.

Re-reading it is nice though. What an amazing high...is there a non-addictive-drug way of holding on to that feeling because life would be way better.

Sigh.

The weight room (2/8/08)

2009-02-01T18:27:00.000-08:00

Luckily, I don't have to frequent gyms/workout rooms/weight rooms often. Since running is my primary form of exercise and I live in a place where the weather rarely gets below 20 degrees and rain isn't a regular occurrance around 5:15 AM-ish, it's just never been a necessity. Going to the gym is a perfectly acceptible way to work out and I realize that lots of people thrive in that environment but as a person who is a bit introverted, a tad unsocial and kinda intolerant, it's just better for me to spend my early mornings in the great outdoors with the homeless people and drug dealers. I feel more anonymous and if I get sweaty and gross nobody cares.

Gosh, I just painted a lovely picture of myself - crabby and smelly. I swear normally I'm a genuinely nice person and smell ok...I'm just saying I have my days.

There are other things I don't like about gyms...the crowded-ness, the smelly-ness, the blah-ness...oh and the machines are awfully pushy with all of those numbers! This is how many miles you've gone, this is how many minutes you've gone, this is the speed your going, this is your incline, this is your heartrate, this is the number of calories you've burnt. STOP! I don't want to know...but I can't help but look. :) My eyes are uncontrollably drawn to the little monitor. It's maddening.

All of that aside, I do see the benefits of treadmills when it comes to speedwork...it's a lot easier to make myself run fast when the only option to not running a certain speed is a face full of moving tread, the potential loss of teeth, and a lot of embarrassment. So I do find myself, on occasion, sucking it up and trekking up to the 12th floor of my building to the community workout room for some one on one time with the hamster wheel for humans.

One night last week I found myself out of work earlier than usual and feeling the need to run fast. Hopeful of finding one of the 2 treadmills available I ventured to the workout room. First of all, the building I live in is is a little bit strange in general so it shouldn't be at all surprising that the weight room is slightly odd too. The room is on the 12th floor of a building with 11 actual floors. Basically, one room (approximately the size of an efficiency apartment without the bathroom) was built on the top of the building and the stairwell was extended to it. The room consists of 2 treadmills, 1 stationary bike, 1 stairclimber and 1 elliptical all surrounding a 5 or 6 station weighlifting contraction thingy (it looks kind of like a torture device). It's one cramped and smelly little room but, what can I say, it's free.

This particular night there were surprisingly few residents using the facility and there was an open treadmill (yay) which I quickly claimed and where I systematically set up house (spot for the water, space for the IPOD, put my keys over here). I started running and the first 15 minutes were lovely...then he arrived.

I was suspicious from the start as he strutted in with a huge cd player, plugged it in in front of the mirror and turned it on. Suddenly the entire room was filled with music. I'm not sure what music it was exactly because the base was so loud that you couldn't really identify the actual words or even the tune. Apparently he knew the words, though, because he was singing along...well, he was singing along when he wasn't talking loudly about how much he knew about working out and the "right" ways to lift weights. For the next 30 minutes it was a constant flow of booming base, loud talking and bad advice about how to flex. I turned up my IPOD to the highest setting possible to try to cover up the music but that did absolutely nothing other than create even more noise - my Billy Joel and Natasha Beddingfield didn't stand a chance against whatever it was he was playing. Even at their loudest, my easy listening just blended with his loud, fast bass to create a mess of incomprehensible lyrics and noise (I think "cacophony" is the grown up word...thank you SATs). I finally gave up in my attempts to listen to my own music and retired the IPOD for the night, left to find entertainment in his conversation with whoever would listen. In the time he was there (a total of about 30 minutes) he forced us all to listen to 5 of his songs, he dispenced lifting advice to 3 other guys (most of whom didn't take it), talked to 2 of his girlfriends on the phone and 1 girlfriend who actually came to visit him at the weightroom, practiced 4 or 5 dance moves and completed approximately 10 reps (that's 10 reps...not 10 sets of reps...he lifted a weight a total of 10 times), all while staring at himself admiringly in the mirror (yes, the entire time).

As he unplugged his cd player and walked out the door I looked down at the treadmill display to find that my workout was nearly over and that I was going faster than I had originally thought. Without the beat, the talking, and the cell phone ringing, the room seemed exceedingly quiet as we all went about our running, stair climbing, elliptical-ing, cycling and lifting. With just my music, the minutes suddenly started to feel like hours. I was thoroughly bored by my fellow workouters who just stared staight ahead, clearly focused on the task at hand - no personality at all. I decided to end a little bit early.

Who knew being annoyed could be so entertaining! :)

NOTHING (1/23/08)

2009-02-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since I used this space. I could say that I've been terribly busy (you know, the holidays and all) or I could say that work has been absolutely crazy. I could blame the winter blahs (although, actual winter weather really just got to this sliver of the world about a week ago) or claim that I've been following through on my New Years resolution to read more and surf less.

I could give you all of those perfectly acceptible explanations but the honest to goodness truth is that absolutely nothing has happened over the course of the past 3 months and I have virtually nothing of any interest to write about. No, I'm serious...nothing.

It's actually kind of a frustrating situation what with the holidays and all. There are so many cool social situations where people are brimming with news and dying for an interesting tidbit but, try as I might, I have nothing to contribute. Everything in me dreads the inevitable turn of the conversation,

"So, Faith, what's new?"
"hmmm, gosh, not much, you know the same old same old: I work at the same place, I went running this morning, yep still dating Dave, spent Christmas in Minnesota and it was cold, I'M BORING DAMMIT...did you hear about Britney Spears?" (insert awkward smile here)

Not that I've ever been an incredibly interesting person. Even on a good day I don't have a whole whole lot to contribute.

No, no, I know it's true - you don't have to be nice. I am very well aware of my ability to make an interesting story less than interesting and my flawless inability to bs. I blame my childhood and the fact that I was an only child (I can blame almost ANYTHING on being an only child). It's true, though, I never learned to be interesting because I didn't have to - my parents thought I was perfect (interesting or not), my Barbie Dolls always smiled back and the pets could care less as long as they were fed.

So, establishing that neither entertaining thoughts/stories or the ability to tell them well come naturally to me, we can assume that I am forced to draw material from either

1) people who I know
or
2) people I see in public places.

There are problems with both of these sources. Writing about people I know (especially the really funny stuff) seems like a dangerous proposition for somebody whose blog is linked to their picture and real name. Writing about people I see in public leaves me at the mercy of people I see in public - I just have to wait until they do something amusing, which could take a while (that said, living in the greater DC area increase the probability of option 2 so I'm keeping my fingers crossed).

While I wait for something to happen (dear god...anything!) I will try to find slightly interesting things to keep me going.
For example, my boss has a word of the day calendar. Today's word is vertiginous

Ver-tig-i-nous -
1) whirling; spinning; rotary (Vertiginous currents of air.)
2) affected with vertigo; dizzy
3) liable or threatening to cause vertigo (a vertiginous climb)
4) apt to change quickly; unstable (a vertiginous economy)

Definition 4 is very nice - "A vertiginous day would be a welcome change from three months of monotony" she thought as she sat at her computer writing a slightly boring blog.

Blah!

Christmas at the Container Store (12/7/07)

2009-02-01T18:25:00.001-08:00

I've never thought of myself as an especially festive person. I enjoy holidays - I like going home to visit and spending time with friends and family and I love getting time off of work (I mean, who doesn't?), but I don't have special Halloween socks, I don't start preparing for Christmas in September (except for buying my plane ticket home to Minnesota....but that's not festive it's just good financial sense) and I don't think I ever actually believed in Santa Clause. I truly love sitting down to a big Thanksgiving meal with people I care about, I honestly enjoy carving pumpkins, and I have been known to pretend to believe in Santa Clause but I don't get that childlike excitement went I look at a calendar and see a holiday in the near future and, as I alluded to earlier, I don't have a single holiday-themed piece of clothing (no American flag t-shirts or shamrock earrings). Basically, I don't live for holidays...but I think I enjoy them as much as the next person.

Last night, though, for a split second, I turned into a big grouchy holiday hater (along the lines of Scrooge or the Grinch - yes that bad). I'm not proud, but it makes for an ok story.

I had to run a Christmas-related errand for work before going home for the night. It required going to the Container Store to purchase 130 small cardboard boxes for the employee gift, which needed to be wrapped today. I've discovered recently that I don't always think things through as thoroughly as I should and this is a perfect example. Yesterday was the first "winter storm" of the year. Being a product of the Midwest and having spent a significant time in Minnesota, I tend to be a bit of a snob when it comes to "winter storms" in the DC area (hence the quotes). Yes, it was snowing and, yes, it had been snowing all day and, yes, it was cold, but I walk to the Container Store all of the time and driving 7 or 8 blocks seemed like waste of gas....plus, who wants to pay a meter? I decided with resolution that I would walk to get the boxes....I would show...(I actually have no idea who I would be showing or what I would be proving but at the time I was really stinking determined).

It became pretty clear about 1/2 way there that walking was a bad idea. The cold wasn't so bad as long as I kept my hands tucked in my sleeves and my hood up but I was wearing heels and the sidewalks were slippery. It was also at about that point that a little voice in the back of my head started to whisper questions like "How many boxes are you getting again?" "How heavy will these boxes be?" "How many bags can you carry?"

Wet, cold and annoyed at myself for making stupid decisions, I made it to the store and made a bee line over to the gift box section where I saw exactly what I was there for - a big pile of 10x5x4 gift boxes. As I started to count the boxes out, though, those annoying questions came back..."Gosh, just a pile of 25 is pretty steep...can you really carry 130?" "Will the snow make the bag soggy?" "What if the bag gets soggy, the boxes fall through the bag and land in the snow and then they get soggy and gross and don't work?". As I was counting and obsessing and worrying, a piercing sound filled the store. Somebody somewhere in the Container Store at approximately 6:30 PM on December 6th, 2007 started to whistle (loudly and shrill-ly) along with the instrumental version of "White Christmas" that was booming over the loudspeaker.

I cannot even describe the feeling of irritation that swept through my entire body. As I counted and counted and counted and the whistling grew louder and louder and louder I really wanted to find the person and somehow make them stop. It was completely irrational and pretty unreasonable to be annoyed with somebody who I couldn't even see...especially when they were clearly in a good mood and trying to spread holiday cheer. I knew that it was ridiculous but my frustration was uncontrollable...it was the wrong night in the wrong place. I counted as fast as I could and practically ran to the register where I hurriedly placed my basket full of cardboard on the counter and the cashier started re-counting. Close to escaping the happy holiday tunes (Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, at this point) I started to calm down a bit, knowing that the end was near. The, suddenly and without warning, the whistling (louder and clearer than ever) was directly behind me. I turned and there she was, beaming as she whistled away, full of joy and excitement, completely oblivious to the pain her expression of happiness was causing me.

The cashier must have somehow sensed my anguish and she got me through the process fast (or maybe she was annoyed too and wanted to get the whistler through the line and out of the store as quickly as possible). At any rate, it wasn't long before I was back outside in the cold and the snow, walking awkwardly on the ice as I carried two heavy bags which were digging into my freezing hands (now fully exposed to the winter air), still angry with myself for making stupid decisions.

It was a miserable walk home but there was one thing that kept me going. Yes, conditions were terrible and, yes, I was suffering for my bad choices but you know what? I was no longer trapped in the Container Store with the whistler...and that brought me great joy.

I'm a nice person...I really am! There's just something about whistling. Grrrr...

Happy Holidays!

2 marathons and a bagel (11/9/07)

2009-02-01T18:24:00.000-08:00

I haven't written anything for a bit because I've been spending a lot of time running - I like Fall marathons. :)

It's been a good 2 weeks but I'm ready to rest now.

Purely out of my own inability to plan, I scheduled myself to run the Marine Corps Marathon on the last Sunday of October and the NYC Marathon the first Sunday of November (whoops). While both were fun races I don't recommend them back to back. :) Fortunately, I managed to remain uninjured and actually wound up with 2 personal best times (DC - 3:15 and NY - 3:11).

Probably one of the funniest running moments I've ever seen came at the end of the race in NY. After crossing the finish line runners were handed bags with a gatorade, a water, an apple and a bagel as they limped through the line of runners collecting their medals, getting pictures taken, and turning in their timing chips. Of course at that point all you want to do is to eat carbs and to sit down but what you need to do is walk (because sitting down could involve not getting up again). The man walking in front of me immediately pulled his bagel out of the bag excitedly, ready to eat (I knew the excitement-I felt it too), when something truly tragic happened....the bagel fell from his hands and landed on the ground.

Now, most people would probably say, "Oh no! the bagel got all dirty and he couldn't eat it?" but that was a minor problem - at that point, the germ aspect was insignificant. The true problem? How in the heck to get down low enough to pick up the precious bagel. He stood there....staring at the ground...at the bagel that was in his reach but oh so far away.

I felt so helpless, I wanted to help but I had just run 26.2 miles as well and the pain was just too great...actually, I didn't even know if my legs would bend that far. I'm pretty sure I would have had to throw myself to the ground and hand it back up to him.

Give him my bagel? Are you crazy?

So, I stared with him, sharing in his misery - trying to appear compassionate. Other runners came and looked down as well, mourning his loss and wanting to help but simply unable. You could see it in our faces - we all wanted to pick ut up but it seemed so, so, so far.

Finally, relief came in the form of a volunteer who willingly (even excitedly) came to the rescue.

There's just something about marathons that brings out the best in people. :)

Back to Baltimore and a message from Superman (10/18/07)

2009-02-01T18:21:00.000-08:00

Many of you probably know the results of my ill-fated performance in the 2005 Baltimore Marathon (a tragic story of high expectations and dashed hopes), mainly because it's a story I kinda like to tell. I like the reaction - fully admit it. It's usually a mix of "Oh, how scary" with a touch of "Oh, how funny" and an ounce of "how could you be so stupid?".

The long and short is - On that day (back when I was young and foolish) I made it to mile 23 of 26 of the Baltimore Marathon, blacked out due to severe dehydration (yeah, drinking a lot of diet coke probably isn't the best race preparation), and woke up in the emergency room of a Baltimore hospital unable to remember my name, address, or having ever been in a marathon...oh, and I also didn't carry a single piece of contact information so, basically nobody else knew who I was either. Overall, it was a super duper situation. Fortunately, my friend Chandra was there running as well and tracked me down when I didn't show up at the finish line (despite claims by the race directors that I "probably just met a guy running and went to a bar after the race...to which she replied, "You don't know Faith"). By the time she found me, I had been discharged with about 75% of my memory back, sent to a taxi cab and driven to the hotel where I was pretty sure I was staying only to find that I hadn't run with a key or any money either. The cab driver was very patient and sat, waiting with me (the meter running, of course), until Chandra arrived (escorted by a helpful policeman) with and key and money and saved the day.

Anyway, even thought I've successfully completed other marathons over the past 2 years, Baltimore has haunted me since that day - the unfulfilled dream, the open-ended journey, the Odyssey to my Odysseus, the race I never finished. Well, last Saturday, I returned to Baltimore with my friends Nichole, Taryn and Bruce to run the team relay, which is a race that runs parallel to the marathon with 4 people each running a section. I ran the 4th and final segment of the race (including the 3 miles I didn't finish the first time). It was quite the run down memory lane - look, the park where I started walking, the bridge where another runner told me I didn't look good and tried to make me stop, I even narrowed it down to 2 potential blocks where I think I might have collapsed. Awwww...memories...or, actually in this case, lack of memories. :)

As I passed marathoners (not so hard considering my first mile was their 19th - but man did I feel like a rock star!) I thought back over the past 2 years and about how things have changed since that last race in Baltimore. Who I was then and who I am now are such different people. Isn't it amazing how time and experience can move you in different directions and force you to grow into a different, stronger, better person?

A smarter person, too. This time I drank lots of water beforehand, carried cab money, and wrote my name, address and about 10 emergency contacts on the back of my bib.

Thanks to my relay teammates - you guys are the best!

Note: Another quote from strange people I meet on my morning run - "Lois Lane, Superman is waiting for you at the Daily Planet." The man who relayed this message to me was so concerned that I get it that he actually flagged me down and asked me to stop listening to my music. I understand his concern, Superman should not be kept waiting.

3 blocks is just too far (10.12.07)

2009-02-01T18:20:00.000-08:00

Today on my run I saw a man catch a cab on 16th and R. Roughly 3 blocks and 2 stoplights later I watched him get out of the cab at 16th and U and walk into Results Gym for, what I can only assume to be, his morning workout.

I hate to be judgemental (because my blogs are NEVER judgemental :)) but...what?

HW GW made me late for church/Notes from the Mall GW made me late for church/Notes from the Mall (9/26/07)

2009-02-01T18:19:00.000-08:00

Running on the National Mall everyday has its quirks - some good and some bad. Following is a rundown of some of both.

Lots of tourists who say funny things-
ex: a woman to her husband while catching her first view of Lincoln (at the appropriately named Lincoln Memorial): "Now, Bob, who is this?"
Her husband's reply (with a tone seeming to imply that he has to answer these questions fairly often): "This would be Abraham Lincoln."

Running through random family pictures-
I used to try to avoid people who were taking family and monument pictures but eventually I gave up. Now, I kind of like the idea that I'm in albums accross the country. Look, it's the Jones family in front of the Washington Monument.....and some sweaty girl running behind them.

Haphazardly taking part in events on the Mall-
One day last weekend they were broadcasting the National Opera Company's "La Boheme" live from the Kennedy Center on a big screen for opera fans picnicking on the lawn in front of the Washington Monument. Meanwhile, participants (people and pets) from the Humane Society Walk for the Animals were following their walk route which wound right by the big screen. I don't think the dogs fully appreciated La Boheme...but I don't think the opera audience loved the dogs barking through the performance either. You just never know what you're going to get.

Public Service announcement:While the constant activity is all very entertaining and makes a run more interesting, it's extremely important to continue paying attention so you don't run into any other people or fall into any of the bodies of water on the Mall. Neither has happened to me, although I did, in a moment of complete coolness, get distrated by a squirrel and trip over an ankle-high chain link divider near the Lincoln Memorial. There weren't many people around and I got up pretty quickly and kept running so I thought I had gotten away with it until what appeared to be a stereotypical high school boy yelled "I saw that!"...punk. :)

Horse stuff-
The Capitol Police like to ride their horses for the National Mall beat, which is sort of strange in itself. I guess if you are going to use police horses in DC, the Mall is really the most (or only) appropriate place to do so. I once saw a policeman on a horse in the Georgia-Petworth neighborhood...which was just wrong, "Hey you, I see that drug deal and I'm coming over there...on my horse." Um,no, the bad-ass factor of a horse is not high enough to prove effective in some neigborhoods.
Now, I have nothing at all against the horses, they are nice, gentle animals and little kids get really excited when they see both a police person AND a horse at the same time! My concern is what the horses leave all over the Mall. People get ticketed for not cleaning up after their dogs on the sidewalk on 16th street but police horses can do whatever they want amidst our monuments and it's ok to just leave it there? May I add that horses leave a much bigger mess than dogs.
(I just realized that this particular subject seems to be a reoccuring theme in my blogs...I'll try to stop talking about it)

So, now we get to the most annoying thing about running on the Mall - MOTORCADES-
Last Sunday I was running a great pace down 15th Street, nearing the east side entrance road to the White House. Passing a group of guards I heard the booming announcement accross the waves of all 7 of their radios, "Attention - Charlie departure 1 minute". All of a sudden police cars appeared out of nowhere and blocked the streets in every direction...I was stuck. "Charlie" must be code for the Pres and "1 minute" must be code for 20 minutes because that's how long I waited for his actual departure. Stuck there with boundless energy and approximately 1 city block's worth of sidewalk, I waited...and waited...and waited.

Ok, ok, so I get it. He's the President and, regardless of how I feel about him (or his administration, or his speaking ability, or the decisions he makes, or anything he does actually) he is, in the grand scheme of things, much more important than Faith and her morning run...but, does it have to be so stinking blatent?

If I were the President I wouldn't take advantage of my superior station and the benefits of my job if it meant making people pull over on the highway or trapping them on the sidewalk - heck no! I'd just take the helicopter. :)

Of course, then I'd miss out on the quirks of the Mall.

Huh??? (9/14/07)

2009-02-01T18:17:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning excited to start a new day. Remembering it was a Friday I smiled to myself thinking, "gosh, Faith, isn't it great to be alive and looking forward to a full day of work and the fun-filled weekend ahead?" (I know, weird right? and I didn't even watch "The Secret last night!) Full of positive energy and ready to take on my day I stepped out my door to find there, in the middle of the hallway, a pile of poop.

How did it get there? I live in the middle of the city in a building with enclosed, carpeted hallways. There is not a breezeway and the hallway is not open-air, leading me to believe that this pile of poop must have come from:

A) somebody's cat who was roaming the hallway
B) an extremely large rodent of some kind
C) a small child

After taking each possibility into account I realized that in my building each of the potential answers was entirely possible and that none of the answers were the least bit comforting - a pile of poop is a pile of poop, regardless of where it came from or how it got there. It simply is what it is.

Yet another moment where I am left to simply wrinkle my nose and mutter "huh?" in a questioning tone.

God Bless Washington DC.

Bikers who pedal (8/28/07)

2009-02-01T18:16:00.000-08:00

I have to start out by saying that I have a great deal of respect for bikers who pedal.

I guess, after saying that, I should really clarify that I respect the Harley Davidson kind of bikers as well.

Actually, this may be a good opportunity to pose a hypothetical question that has been haunting me since biker weekend (officially called "Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Rally") in DC last June:
Say you are a biker chick who is dating a biker dude who goes on long biker trips (the cross country kind). You think your relationship might be getting serious and then, one day, he buys a new bike and it's a one-seater! Is he hinting that he doesn't plan on taking you on any of his cross country trips? Does it mean he's not in it for the long haul? Do you have to start to question the relationship? Sorry, these are just the kinds of of things I think about.

Anway, back to the original subject: I have a great deal of respect for bikers who pedal. You are sparing the environment, getting a workout, and straight up brimming with social responsibility. It's all very very impressive and you make me feel like a big fat capitalist consumer jerk every time I hop into Lumi (full name: Lumina...as in Chevy) and start the ignition.
(Although, giving my car a name and personality does kind of make me less of a jerk, doesn't it? - it's not a gas guzzling, fume emitting, machine of destruction...it's my friend!)

All of that said, I have recently encountered a biker (the pedal kind) whose behavior threatens to tarnish the elevated status pedal bikers everywhere hold in my mind. He rides past my building every morning at about the time I'm leaving for work and I will just call him Mr. Biker.

My first experience with Mr. Biker was one morning when Lumi and I were starting the morning commute with a right turn from a little side street onto a very busy 16th street. I looked both ways (I promise) and then I started to pull out only to hear a loud "You *&*%()&$$% - watch the *&^$ out!". I swear he wasn't there when I looked left...he came out of nowhere! No, I didn't hit him but I definitely had visions of being hauled away for reckless driving - there's no redemption for a big fat capitalist consumer jerk who carelessly hits a socially responsible man on a bike. I sat for a second, collected my thoughts, and reminded myself of the importance of watching for bikes when driving.

My second experience with Mr. Biker was one morning when I was crossing 16th street to get to Lumi. It's a long light (at least 3 hours...ok less than that) and I was late so I was poised and waiting intently. Finally the little walking person symbol lit up and it was my time to cross. I was distracted by a cute puppy in a yard on the other side of 16th so I, admittedly, failed to look both ways (I know, I know, basic Sesamie Street stuff - but I had the go ahead from the traffic light!) and started to cross when all of a sudden "You *&%*($& - watch the *($^() out!". Once again, there was my friend speeding down the street, and he really didn't feel like he needed to stop for the red light. I jumped back onto the sidewalk in time to avoid becoming a speedbump and reminded myself of the importance of watching for bikers when you are crossing a street....even when you have the right-of-way and they have the red light.

My third experience with Mr. Biker was this morning when I was walking down the sidewalk to the stoplight where I cross 16th street to get to Lumi. There were several people waiting to catch the 16th street bus (bus riders are also responsible citizens who don't drive cars - almost as socially responsible as bikers who pedal) including a gentleman in a wheelchair. As the bus pulled up, the line started to form and everyone was stepping aside for the wheelchair to go first when all of a sudden we all heard a loud "You *(Y*&(*&$ - watch the *$& out!". He was speeding down the sidewalk this time and the man in the wheelchair was blocking his path. I suppose the man in the wheelchair should have looked looked both ways but you generally don't think to do that when you are crossing the sidewalk. I reminded myself of the importance of watching for bikes when you are on the sidewalk...even when you are in a wheelchair.
(don't worry...while I took the passive approach in this particular situation, the man in the wheelchair was more than capable of defending himself and did so, quite eloquently compared to Mr. Biker who, as you may have noticed, only seems to know one phrase)

My dream: that someday we will live in a world where drivers, walkers, runners and bikers (both of the pedal and Harley variety) can agree on fair and equal traffic patterns.

Peace out.

Ick! (8/7/07)

2009-02-01T18:12:00.000-08:00

I like my job but it's not an in-your-face, on the edge-of-your-seat, fast-paced kind of job.
I mean let's face it, I'm somebody's assistant...that's just what I do.

This week the person who I assist is on vacation which is leaving me feeling a little bit lost - what does an assistant do without anyone to assist?
Today, after some filing, some cleaning, some scheduling and some typing I found myself wondering...ok, what now?

This contemplation led directly into a serious wave of sleepiness. As we all know sleepiness is very, very dangerous when you are at work. It's even more dangerous when your desk just happens to be in the middle of the hallway where lots and lots of coworkers walk by and notice things like, oh I don't know, assistants taking naps.

I tried water and that didn't help. I tried lemon zest tea and it helped for a second or two but then I was sleepy again. Sucking on jolly ranchers from the front desk helped until they were gone...then all I had was a tummy ache. Finally it came down to the last possible option...a technique that I've only had to use once or twice in my life. It's a method I turn to only when completely desperate to stay alert because it's just too completely disgusting to be used for anything less than total desperation.

Past 11 AM in the kitchen in our office you will most definitely not find a full pot of fresh, piping hot coffee. At that exact point in the day (after the morning coffee drinkers but still before the afternoon coffee drinkers) you will instead find in the coffee pot about 1/4 inch of cold, concentrated, slightly sludgy, starbucks house blend coffee. Mmmm. It looks awful and it tastes worse but taken as a quick shot (with a spoonful of sugar to mask the bitterness and with your nose plugged to mask the smell) it is good for exactly one thing. Once the concentrated caffeine/sugar combination hits your system it will definitely keep you awake which it is has been doing for me all afternoon.

This isn't a very important post and it probably isn't even interesting for anyone other than myself but for some reason I'm really hyper, have a lot of nervous energy and am completely fascinated by the mundane. I can't imagine what could be causing this behavior. :)

Whoops...Boston Marathon misprint (7/17/07)

2009-02-01T18:10:00.000-08:00

I have some amazing and incredibly supportive friends...so supportive that you all allowed me to live a lie for 4 months!

I was extremely excited about running the Boston Marathon last March and, in spite of some really unpleasant conditions, it went incredibly well. In fact, I ran my best time ever - 3 hours, 22 minutes, and 55 seconds. Apparently I was so excited about the whole experience that when I got back to DC and wrote my myspace blog I miswrote my time as "2 hours, 22 minutes and 55 seconds". Huh, that would make me....well, it would make me incredible (and probably either Kenyan or Russian).

Well, that's embarrassing! Luckily, my friend Dana just visited my myspace page for the first time and wrote a very nice email congratulating me on the amazing time, leading me to look back over the original posting, where I discovered my false claim and realized that I've been living a lie.

So, thank you all for your faith in me and in my running abilities but, no, I didn't run the Boston Marathon in 2 hours and 22 minutes (although I really wish that I had!).
I guess I do have a goal for New York in November, though. :)

A strange, strange city...I mean District (7/14/07)

2009-02-01T18:09:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to say this story is funny because I've been fully present for 2 home break-ins and I know how terrifying crime can be.

That said, I absolutely have to post this article from the 7/13/07 Washington Post on my blog because the story completely embodies what I find so fascinating about Washington DC. Truly bizarre things happen here and are simply accepted as life. My favorite example is the rise, fall and rise again of Marion Barry, but there are many, many others.

Why the strangeness? I blame the abundance of illegal substances and overexposure to fireworks...and perhaps taxation without representation. Okay, enough from me...enjoy:

"A Gate-Crasher's Change of Heart
by Allison Klein, Washington Post Staff Writer.

A grand feast if marinated steaks and jumbo shrimp was winding down, and a group of friends was sitting on the back patio of a Capitol Hill home, sipping red wine. Suddenly, a hooded man slid in through an open gate and put the barrel of a handgun to the head of a 14-year-old guest.

"Give me your money, or I'll start shooting," he demanded, according to DC police and witness accounts.

The five other guests, including the girls' parents, froze -- and then one spoke.

"We were just finishing dinner," Christina "Cha Cha" Rowan, 43, blurted out. "Why don't you have a glass of wine with us?"

The intruder took a sip of their Chateau Malescot St-Exupery and said, "Damn that's good wine."

The girl's father, Michael Rabdau, 51, who described the harrowing evening in an interview, told the intruder, described as being in his 20s, to take the whole glass. Rowan offered him the bottle. The would-be robber, his hood now down, took another sip and had a bite of Camembert cheese that was on the table.

Then he tucked the gun into the pocket of his nylon sweatpants.

"I think I may have come to the wrong house," he said, looking around the patio of the home in the 1300 block of Constitution Avenue NE.

"I'm sorry," he told the group. "Can I get a hug?"

Rowan, who lives in Falls Church and works part time at her children's school, stood up and wrapped her arms around him. Then it was Rabdau's turn. Then his wife's. the other two guests complied.

"That's really good wine," the man said, taking another sip. He had a final request: "Can we have a group hug?"

The five adults surrounded him, arms out.

With that, the man walked out with a crystal wine glass in hand, filled with Chateau Malescot. No one was hurt, and nothing was stolen.

The homeowner, Xavier Cervera, 45, had gone out to walk his dog at the end of the party and missed the incident, which happened about midnight June 16. Police classified the case as strange but true and said they had not located a suspect.

"We believe it is a true robbery," said Cmdr Diane Groomes, who is in charge of patrols in the Capitol Hill area. But it's one-of-a-kind, she said, adding, "I've never heard of a robber joining a party and then walking out in the sunset."

The hug, she said, was especially unusual. "The should have squeezed him and held onto him for us," she said.

Rabdau said he hasn't been able to figure out what happened.

"I was definitely expecting there would be some kind of casualty," Rabdau said this week. "He was very aggressive at first; then it turned into a love fest. I don't know what it was."

Rabdau, a federal government worker who lives in Anne Arundel County with his family and lived on Capitol Hill with his wife in the 1980s, said that the episode lasted about 10 minutes but seemed like an hour. He believes the guests were spared because they kept a positive attitude during the exchange.

"There was this degree of disbelief and terror at the same time," Rabdau said. "Then it miraculously just changed. His whole emotional tone turned -- like, we're one big happy family now, I thought: Was it the wine? Was it the cheese?"

After the intruder left, the guests walked inside the house, locked the door and stared at each other. They didn't say a word. Rabdau dialed 911. Police arrived quickly and took a report. They also dusted for fingerprints -- so far, to no avail.

In the alley behind the home, investigators found the intruder's empty crystal wine glass on the ground, unbroken.

Relevance07) 2/(7/

2009-02-01T18:08:00.000-08:00

I see a lot of strange things on my morning run - 6AM in downtown DC is a surprisingly good time for people-watching.

Some examples:
...the woman with crazy hair who greets me every morning on her way to work with "It's my friend" (apparently I'm her friend) "Good Morning Friend - Jesus loves you!"
...the half-asleep guards outside all of the important government buildings who have been standing there all night waiting for something very important to happen (so far, nothing has)
...the man who delivers newspapers in his minivan while his dog runs along beside (into oncoming traffic)
...lots of homeless people doing all kinds of strange things (enough said)

This morning I encountered a man who, I think, was walking to work but seemed to be still drunk from last night. After trying to get around him for a few seconds (his haphazard staggering had him pretty much all over the sidewalk) I finally saw an opening and ran fast. As I ran by he looked directly at me and said - "Nobody thinks you're relevant........at all".

Wow. His comments really kind of hurt and definitely led me through a 5 second evaluation of my life. Could this stranger read my lack of relevance simply from watching me run by? Do I really appear to have nothing to offer? Maybe he has a point - in 28 years of life what have I actually contributed to this world? Glancing back to try to get a better idea of the person who had so clearly cut to the heart of my self-worth, I watched as he very deliberately turned to his right and walked directly into the wall of a building.

Then and there I decided that relevance is highly over-rated.

Not even diet coke is perfect (6/25/07)

2009-02-01T18:07:00.000-08:00

I really, really, really love Diet Coke. It's cool, refreshing and everything that the Coke marketing department would like you to believe. It's perfect on a hot day, on a cold day, with popcorn at a movie, with nachos at a hockey game, watching tv at night...the list goes on. It makes me smile. Friends make fun of me (although many of you can relate) and my mom blames every ailment on the obsession (A cold? It's because you drink too much diet coke...A sore throat? It's because you drink to much diet coke...A pulled muscle? It's probably the diet coke). Still, I persist - I love the stuff.

Sadly, though, everything that is truly great has a flaw and I've recently discovered the fatal flaw with Diet Coke - the packaging. 3 times in the last month or so, I have fallen victim of the false promises of faulty Diet Coke packaging. Admittedly, my first experience was partly my own fault. While shopping at the DC Giant about 5 blocks from my apartment, I was tempted by an amazing deal on a 24 pack of diet coke. Normally a 12-pack kind of girl, I knew it would be harder to transport home with 3 other bags of groceries but the savings was truly unbelievable and I simply couldn't turn down the deal. The check out girl knew better "Did you walk here? Wow, you must REALLY like diet coke. Good luck getting that home". Whatever, it's only 5 blocks and the pack has the cool little handle thing...I practice yoga...I'm stronger than I look dammit! Predictably, approximately 1/2 block later (and directly in front of the newest, trendiest little cafe in the neighborhood) the cardboard packaging gave out and 24 cans of diet coke went rolling in every direction (well, 24 cans minus the 2 that burst open upon impact with the sidewalk). After a good laugh, a couple of nice guys helped me collect the cans and one man even ventured into 14th Street to rescue two cans who clearly had a death wish. The gesture was extremely kind but slightly insane seeing as how 14th Street is a fairly busy street and they were, after all, just cans of diet coke. With 4 1/2 blocks to go, I somehow managed to find space in my other shopping bags, purse, and pockets for the 22 leftover cans. Oh well, it provided some entertainment for the handful of people on the sidewalk and the cooler-than-cool young professionals in the trendy restaurant who had a clear view of the incident.

You would think I would learn from that experience....but no. A couple of weeks later diet coke was on sale again. This time it was the 12-packs which, for some reason, seemed much safer. Plus, I was at a different Giant and had my car this time. I had come to peace with the previous incident, deciding it had all come about as the result of my being greedy and trying to take on more than I could handle. This time was completely different because I was keeping it simple. I confidently picked up the 12-pack and continued to make my way through the weekly grocery list. Then, in the middle of the cereal aisle, it happened again. It's kind of a blur but one minute I was trying to decide between Raisin Bran and Fruit Loops and the next minute 11 Diet Coke cans were rolling down the aisle, the 12th was fizzing all over the place and I was standing there holding onto a flimsy piece of cardboard packaging with a look of confusion on my face. Fortunately, the only other people in the aisle were a mother and her son (who was probably 8 or 9). The kid thought it was funny and the mom looked at me with a sadness in her eyes that makes me believe she must love diet coke too.

The third incident came just last evening in Arlington when diet coke was again on special (5 12-packs for $10 - a fabulous deal!). While tempted to buy more than one (the power of advertising - let's word it 5 for $10 instead of 1 for $2), my recent experiences have changed me and I'm no longer the trusting, open-minded, happy-go- lucky coke buyer I used to be...I'm cynical and questioning. This time I waited until the end of my shopping trip to pick up the Diet Coke and I cautiously inspected 4 or 5 different 12-packs to find the one that looked the safest. I wasn't going to fall for the whole "punch out handle" this time, oh no. I held the chosen 12-pack firmly with both hands, way more attentive to the Diet Coke than the bananas at the bottom of my basket. My caution paid off and I made it to the car without incident. The 20 minute drive home from Arlington was pretty uneventful, with the exception of a sudden stop due to some unexpected traffic hidden behind a turn on Rock Creek Parkway. I didn't think much of that stop until I retrieved the groceries from my car and was shocked to find diet coke cans all over the floor of the backseat. Apparently my driving was too intense for a 12-pack and the impact of a sudden stop was enough to throw it from the backseat onto the floor and shock it into falling apart.

I give up. From now on I'm just going to take a special bag on my grocery shopping trips to be used exclusively for the collection of diet coke cans following the ineviteable collaps of their easy to use container. What's that you say? Maybe I should just stop buying cans of Diet Coke? Yeah right. :)

My fate (5/17/07)

2009-02-01T18:05:00.000-08:00

I had an unpleasant start to the day. About halfway into my morning run (at the precise point when I'm the farthest away from my apartment and a fresh supply of t-shirts), a friendly neighborhood bird singing sweetly in the trees overhead gave me a thoughtful present….down the front of my shirt.

This is not the first time this has happened…it's not the second time it's happened…this is the THIRD time I have been accosted from above by a feathered friend. Perhaps I should count my blessings in that only once has "it" gotten on my hair (the first time it landed on my shoe and this time only a t-shirt was sacrificed). I can also think of at least one additional time when I came close enough to know that I had narrowly missed being a target so maybe I should be thankful it's 3 times and not 4. It was this positive thinking that distracted me from the really strange looks from people I passed on the sidewalk (What in the world is on that girls shirt?!?!? - yes, it was that obvious) and made it possible to block out my own disgust until I got home and could adequately deal with the situation.

That said, my run home did leave me plenty of time to consider the question - is this normal? Does this happen to everyone? In 28 years I have "just happened" to be directly in range of a bird 3 times - what are the chances of that? A bird is a tiny, tiny animal and I am a moving target. Plus, I live in a city on a fairly busy street where there just aren't all that many trees.

If it were most any other situation (finding $5, for instance, or running into somebody I haven't seen in 20 years on a metro car in a foreign city, or picking up my phone to call somebody at the exact moment they were calling me) I would consider it fate - the planets aligned and I was simply supposed to be at that very place at that precise moment in time doing that exact thing.

Destiny is supposed to be an idyllic, romantic notion - I don't want to believe the planets aligned to make a mess of one of my favorite t-shirts! Is this what the universe has in store for me? What does that say about my future?

Seriously…does this happen to other people?

Boston - 3 hours 22 minutes and 55 seconds (4/20/07)

2009-02-01T18:03:00.000-08:00

Friday, April 20, 2007

Boston - 3 hours 22 minutes and 55 seconds

Low Point: Standing in the mud under a tent in Hopkinton, Massachusettes at 6:30 AM, eating a powerbar, watching the rain fall sideways (thanks to the wind), wondering why in a million years anyone would ever, ever, ever voluntarily run 26+ miles.

High Point: High 5's from little kids all along the route - very cool.

How a stapler changed everything (4/7/07)

2009-02-01T18:02:00.000-08:00

In the copy/supply room at work we have an automatic stapler. Unlike traditional staplers which require the effort of manually applying pressure to make the staples staple, the automatic version reaquires merely placing the paper into the groove...that's all - the stapler does all of the work.

When I started in the office 2 years ago, coming from my nonprofit/ professional volunteer/ emphasis on living simple living background, I viewed the automatic stapler in the copy room with suspicion and annoyance. Admittedly holier-than-thou, I saw it as a ridiculous frivolity - honestly, how much effort does it really take to staple papers? When I saw people using the automatic stapler I felt strangely superior - "look at that guy using the automatic stapler... honestly, how lazy can a person be?"

Then, everything changed.

One day I was making copies and needed to staple a stack of about 50 sets of a document. The real stapler normally kept in the copy room was missing. I had the option of going all the way back to my desk or I could use (horror) the automatic stapler. Ok,ok, time management seemed more important at this point so I did it...I used it.

Amazing - simply amazing! It took about 20 seconds to staple the whole stack and the staples looked so straight and pretty!

Soon I found myself using the automatic stapler every single time I needed to staple something in the copy room. It was kind of fun to use and I liked the little sound it makes when it stapled.

This past week I turned a new corner when I actually took something that I was working on at my desk and walked to the copy room simply to staple it.

So much for beliefs...what a sellout.

Honestly, how lazy can a person be?

A bad night at the grocery store (3/20/07)

2009-02-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

I found myself in a very uncomfortable position recently - stuck in the middle of an argument between 2 people who both happened to be having an extremely bad day.

It was a rainy, wet, chilly night in Arlington, Virginia. There was a random neighborhood parade going on, blocking the major road and making everybody, in general, cranky (very un-parade like). After a really hard yoga class I just wanted to get home to my cozy apartment, eat dinner, and be my peaceful yogi self....except that I had no food.

Hmmm...dilemma, I could either drive out of my way (in the midst of the parade-related backup) to go to Safeway OR I could walk 2 blocks to Whole Foods. I had no choice...fate (well, ok, convenience) led me to the high-end, kinda snooty (come on, you know it's true), organic-friendly Whole Foods Market.

After wandering aimlessly through the all natural soaps, pesticide-free fruits and vegetables, and $30 cheeses, I made my way (with my small fortune-worth of groceries) to the checkout where I was relieved to find that I had only 5 items and could use the 8 items or fewer express lane. Yay!

In line, I found myself wedged between two very typical DC-ish types: A) the early 20-ish, young professional, "I just came from a day on Capital Hill followed by an hour at the gym and am stopping at Whole Foods to get my power bar" kinda girl and B) the 40-50 year old, professional, single, "I take myself very seriously and don't appreciate people wasting my very important time" type of man. As the cashier was ringing up Powerbar Girl's last couple of items and I was convincing myself that I didn't need to buy all natural chocolate-chip cookies, Mr. Important stepped around me, tapped the girl on the shoulder and said (in an extremely condescending tone) "Excuse me, miss, but did you notice the sign that says '8 items or fewer'?" Powerbar girl kind of laughed and ignored him but he persisted..."It looks as though you have 10 items".

Ok, did she have more than 8 items? Yes, she did. How do I know this? Because I had counted them too and was, ok admittedly, a little annoyed. That said, would I ever go out of my way to question a person over 2 items? Um, no, probably not. Being my non-confrontational self, I had taken the situation as a 10-second loss and distracted myself with the cookies. Saying something just doesn't seem worth the effort. At this point in the interaction I was definitely on Powerbar Girl's side – her thoughtlessness seemed less obnoxious than Mr. Important's eagerness to point it out.

Then…

"I can't believe you are making such a big deal out of this…what a jerk….it's 2 items and it's not going to make that much of a difference"…and thus began 5 minute tirade on what an #%#)@*$ Mr. Important was for pointing out the fact that she had more items than were technically allowed in that particular line.

Ok, I just switched sides in the argument...while I would never go out of my way to point out that somebody had too many items for said line I also would never attempt to ardently (and rather rudely) defend the fact that I deserve to be in the 8 item line when I clearly have 10 items. Plus, in the time it took her to yell at him, all 10 people in the express line could have been out the door.

So it continued:

"Has anybody ever told you to read and obey rules?" (is it necessary to talk to her like she's a 5 year old?)

"Has anybody ever told you what a ^%*&$) you are?" (is yelling at him really going to help the situation?)

Feeling very much in the middle, I just stared at my tangerines feeling completely ambivalent and unable to pick a side - I can honestly say I disliked them both equally.

By the time Powerbar Girl left in a huff and Mr. Important had fully spoken his mind, I had decided that after the stress I had been through I deserved/ needed the cookies.

Don't worry, though, I was still under 8 items. J

From my gum wrapper... (2/8/07)

2009-02-01T17:56:00.000-08:00

Dentyne-ism #90:

"Just when you thought all hope was lost, along came the Macarena."

So true, so true....:)

You can't make me go to Alexandria dammit! (12/16/06)

2009-02-01T17:54:00.000-08:00

Has anyone ever noticed how obnoxious the GW Parkway is? That road is completely determined to take you to Alexandria whether you like it or not.

Last night I was trying, with every ounce of determination, to get back to DC. After dinner with the girls and a long workweek, I just wanted to be home. Unfortunately, thanks to a closed exit to the Roosevelt bridge (a closure that I knew about and had even discussed with Dave on Thursday evening, but for whatever reason took me by complete surprise), I found myself on the GW Parkway moving definitively away from DC and towards Alexandria. No biggie, I thought, just take the Parkway to 395 and cross that bridge to DC. Well, after missing my exit to 395 (I'm not quite sure how that happened) I was still heading towards Alexandria. Then I attempted to detour through Reagan National Airport, took the wrong exit (I'm not quite sure how that happened either) and was, again, on my way to Alexandria.

It was at about this point that I found myself hating Alexandria and all of the drivers on the Parkway who actually wanted to go there. All of a sudden, a perfectly nice Northern Virginia town became Hell and the GW Parkway became the highway straight to it. I whinced at the idea of people dressed in colonial outfits saying amusing things as they ushered tourists around on ghost tours. Beautiful historical buildings and homes and expensive little shops, often described as "quaint" and "charming" made me nautious. Cobblestone streets became the ultimate evil. Thank god fate intervened and salvation came in the form of an exit to the Alexandria marina, allowing me to pull a U'ie and head back to my exit to 395 and home sweet home to NW DC, where somebody wearing a colonial outfit would probably last about 5 minutes.

Now some of you may say that the Parkway is not to blame for my frustrating experience. Some would site user error and the fact that I forgot about the original closure and managed to miss two exits - I, on the other hand, will stick with blaming the road.

Marine Corps Marathon - 52 is better than 54 (11/18/06)

2009-02-01T17:53:00.001-08:00

So, originally I was the 54th female finisher in this year's Marine Corps Marathon but I've been moved to 52! As it turns out two women were disqualified for jumping the metro for part of the race.

It doesn't change much because the time is what's important and that hasn't changed but I mean really...who does that? :)

God Bless Denver (10/26/06)

2009-02-01T17:48:00.000-08:00

I fully admit it…I was starting to get nervous. With a not so great record, it's been a rough season for the Caps and I was seeing visions of last year…kind of in a funk, feeling low and seriously starting to question what life is all about. Then, what do I see in the Washington Post today? Caps defeat Avalanche 5-3! Finally some relief. I'm smiling again.

Thank you, Denver!

One of the game highlights? Ovechkin shoulder checked one of the Colorado players and the impact actually shattered the board glass, leading to a truly awesome quote… "Breaking the glass. First time for me. I was surprised, like wow, I'm strong." (well, his English is coming along J)

The fact that this news (the win, but also the shoulder check) brightened my entire day made me think a little bit about hockey. What leads a typically calm, non-confrontational, girly girl like me to love a game that actually has a special box for players who start fights and hit other players with sticks? Is it the zamboni? -it's a fascinating machine but no I don't think so. Is it the little kids who come out and play a mini hockey game between the 2nd and 3rd - cute, but no. Is it #9 Dainius Zubrus? – no (well, ok, maybe a little bit).

It all started last New Year's Eve – I remember it well. Boy problems had me feeling low (typical)…a situation only accentuated by the fact that it was universal "have to have a date night" and I had no plans/no date. Out of the blue, I guy who I had only known for a short time asked me to the Caps game. Well, why not, right? – it would be something to do and he was kind of cute.

A little depressed about spending New Year's Eve at a hockey game, I grabbed some nachos (which always make me happy) and sat down in an awesome 8th row seat (he had season tickets), still a bit unsure as to why I was there. Within the first 5 minutes there was a big fight, the crowd was raucous and fun, AND the game ended with a shootout….yep, I was loving it. And with that game a hockey fan was born.

Over the next few months I went to bunches of hockey games and had a blast every time – learning the rules, getting to know the players, hearing the stats. Pretty soon, I even started reading hockey articles in the Post!

With the end of the season, came the end of my relationship with the guy (purely coincidental – I swear!) and I bought my own tickets for the last game…not exactly the 8th row, but still a great view.

This year I'm part owner of season tickets. J

I guess it's just a nice surprise to find something new in your late 20s (when everything else is kind of up in the air and unpredictable) that you really, truly enjoy.

The Best Joke EVER! (10/19/06)

2009-02-01T17:47:00.000-08:00

I can't take credit for this...it came from my coworker's sister's husband, and probably a whole host of cheesy people before him.

A man walks into a bar carrying a slab of asphalt. "What'll ya have?" the bartender asks. "I'll take two beers," the man said. "Two?" the bartender asks, "yeah....one is for the road."

(hee hee)

What I've learned... (10/14/06)

2009-02-01T17:45:00.000-08:00

I've had a busy couple of weeks full of good stuff. I'm feeling enlightened today so I think I'll share a few things I've learned.

Olives are yummy - I experienced the Harris Teeter Olive Bar for the first time and my life will never be the same. I had no idea the world was full of so many wonderful variations of olives - the feta stuffed green olives changed my outlook on life.

Having a sore throat is sexy - I had the worst sore throat in the history of the world...yes I'm serious - the history of the world. It hurt a lot but for about 3 days I had this deep, raspy thing going on and was told that it sounded very Lauren Bacall-ish...yeah, it was hot. Sadly, I'm better now and back to sounding like a 12 year old. :(

Love is worth waiting for - I spent an awesome weekend in Albany, New York (gorgeous this time of year), at the wedding of my friends Nate and Chandra who are, undeniably, the coolest couple I know. They are great as individuals and even better together- always laughing together and making each other happy. It's inspiring and encouraging to know that relationships like that are out there.

The DC teams kinda suck - In the past 2 weeks I've been to a Nationals game, 2 Capitals games and a Wizards game. The DC teams broke my heart every time (the Wizards lost against Toronto...do Canadians even like basketball?). Fortunately, DC fans optimisitic - we don't suck, we're just rebuilding. At least we have the Redskins (oh, wait...hee hee).

A certain credit card company's marketing sucks - My company uses a certain business credit card company (who shall remain nameless). Over the past few weeks, we have received 2 motorized toy trucks. The trucks come with a note explaining that the they are useless without a remote control and in order to get that remote control you can schedule a meeting with a rep from the credit card company who would absolutely love to tell you all about what they can do for our company. Well, the last thing my boss wants to do is meet with a sales person from a credit card company that we already use so the trucks are, basically useless (and, no, universal remote controls don't work...we've tried). I realize there are bigger things to be annoyed by (global warming, war, poverty, injustice in all of its forms) but unused toys really, really tick me off.

Jesus Camp is great but not unbiased - Jesus Camp is a documentary out right now in most independent theaters. It's a great, great movie but only because I happen to be a strong liberal and Christian and the filmmakers take my view of things. I've read reviews saying it's a fair view of the religious right but it's actually extremely cynical and kind of makes fun of evangelical Christians. I liked it a lot but not everyone will.

It's fall and the leaves are beautiful! Life is good.

Crazy Bus Lady Part 2 (9/25/06)

2009-02-01T17:42:00.000-08:00

I forgot one thing...Diana Ross also told a cute little girl (approximately 6 or 7) that Santa Clause didn't exist...she told her very nicely though.

Crazy Bus Lady (9/24/06)

2009-02-01T17:33:00.000-08:00

I rode the bus to church today. I had started driving every Sunday because I couldn't get up early enough to get there in time, but now that I live in a building with it's own bus stop with a route that, in about 15 minutes, drops me off literally 3 blocks from church there's just no excuse. The nice thing about riding the bus in DC (and actually, probably in most places) is that you are always, always entertained. Today was no exception.

The first 2 blocks were actually pretty quiet, but then Diana got on (yes, that would be Diana Ross) . "Good morning everybody!" (the entire bus actually said good morning back, which was nice I thought). In the 10 blocks following, she introduced herself to everyone, sang 3 versus of "That's what friends are For", managed to dump her entire bag of dirty laundry on the floor of the bus, accosted the woman who sat next to her with some really bad Spanish (I think she just threw every Spanish word that she knew in something that resembled a sentence...the other woman just looked confused and kind of scared), sang what I think was a verse of "The Greatest Love of All" by Whitney Houston, tried to steal a woman's boyfriend, offered a pair of jeans (from her bag of dirty laundry) to a woman on the bus who was about 3 sizes smaller than she was (the woman said that she didn't need any more jeans but did thank her for asking), and shared a very interested story about her ex boyfriend (yeah, it was a bit too explicit for my blog....sorry).
Before she got off the bus she repeated a verse of "that's what friends are for" and said goodbye.

Sometimes I wish I could be a crazy bus lady and give other people things to write about on myspace. :)